Nationlings: Missing Moments
by The-Charcoal-Alchemist
Summary: Scenarios, spin-offs, and snippits of "Children of the Nations" that didn't quite make the cut. But they sure make a fun read. Explore the Nations and their children in ways not covered in the first tale. Rated for the span of maturity this will cover.
1. Nuit Terros

When writing, I come up with a lot of ideas at once - most get discarded or altered, mixed up and reused. Some just sit in the dark corners of my computer and gather virtual dust. These are the missing moments of "Children of the Nations" - snippets, scenarios, and other such things that didn't quite make the final cut. The idea for this was originally cross-over-lover232's idea. You're my plot bunny rancher, 232~!

* * *

_Red lights turned pink through the tears that blurred his eyes. Alphonse squeezed his eyes shut, releasing the tears, and trying to block out the sights and sounds around him. His thin, bruised wrists quaked beneath the pressure of the heavy hands that pinned him down, and his heart quailed in disgust and fear as someone's tongue trailed up from his navel to his throat. _

_The weight of the man on top was crushing his pelvis, and making it hard for him to breathe. His sides and back throbbed from the clawing they'd received, and several of the wounds still bled into the cheap sheets beneath them._

_A tiny whimper escaped his tight throat as his captor released one of his wrists to lift one of the smaller blonde's limp legs over his shoulder. Alphonse didn't try to fight. The doors were locked, anyway. _

_Somewhere, in some past life, he must have done something horrible. Lied. Cheated. Killed someone. Why else would God punish him like this? The hand returned to pin down his wrist, and Alphonse's slim body quaked with a silent sob. _

_God, please…forgive him of whatever sin he had committed…please, just make this stop…_

_

* * *

_

He was suddenly surrounded by black. His arms were restrained. He couldn't breathe. In a fit of utter panic, Alphonse tore his way out of the silky bed sheets, throwing himself out of the bed with the motion. The man scrambled to his feet, but lost his balance and fell again, crashing against the pale wall. He pulled his knees to his chest and started to sob, hard and desperate. As though he were trying to break something inside of him.

"_Dieu, s'il vous plaît me libérer ..._" (God, please set me free…) He gasped pitifully between his shoulder-wracking sobs. A hand touched his shoulder gently, and Alphonse screamed, jerking back and covering his head with his arms.

"_Oh, mon pauvre fils ..._" (Oh, my poor son…) A pair of arms encircled him and held him tight. Unlike the usual embrace that bruised and caused him to whimper, this hug was genuine; warm; comforting. Alphonse lowered his arms and dropped his head against France's shoulder, feeling as though every ounce of his strength had simply vanished.

"_Père ... qu'ai-je fait?_" (Father…what have I done?) Alphonse cried. "_Qu'ai-je fait pour attirer la colère de Dieu? Pourquoi dois-je être torturé alors?_" (What have I done to draw God's wrath? Why must I be tortured so?) His voice cracked and Alphonse hiccuped, leaning closer to his father, trying to steal some of that comforting warmth he so craved. France cradled his oldest son close, his own lip beginning to tremble.

"_Vous avez rien fait de mal, mon fils…_" (You have done nothing wrong, my son…) He whispered, leaning down to kiss Alphonse gently on top of the head. "_Le péché est tout à moi…_" (The sin is all mine…) France held his eldest son close, resting his head in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, and simply rocking him as he sobbed.

Had he only known…he would never have left his son to live this horrible life. Just look what it had done to this once happy soul. France cradled Alphonse until the smaller man's sobs had slowed to nothing, and he lay limp and exhausted in his father's arms. "_Soyez tranquille, mon fils ..._" (Rest easy, my son…) France whispered, gently stroking his son's hair. "_Vous ne pouvez pas y retourner._" (You shall not return there.)

"_S'il vous plaît pas ..._" (Please no…) Alphonse whimpered, blue eyes squeezed shut. "_Je ne peux pas faire plus, papa ... Je ne peux pas ... Ça me tue ..._" (I can't do this anymore, papa….I can't….it's killing me…)

"Shhh….." France gently hushed his eldest son. "_Pas plus, mon garçon, pas plus .._." (No more, boy, no more…) He promised softly. "_Vous ne souffre plus. Vous êtes libre, maintenant._" (You shall suffer no are free, now.)

* * *

Very short...but then, these are just snippets. Here, we see another reason France and Alphonse stopped fighting...though Benoit and his 'special stone' were certainly a strong factor.


	2. Breakout

An early Bratva scenario that got discarded from "CotN" and replaced...but I still find the idea entertaining. I hope you do, as well.

* * *

As the Russian thug turned to look out the window, Nathan lunged forward and slammed his arm against the back of the man's neck. Though he didn't possess even half of his father's strength, it was still enough to fell the thug. With the guard unconscious, the young American turned and knelt beside his fellow captive, rushing to untie the rough ropes. Benoit keened, babbling random French words and phrases that the older male couldn't understand. As soon as the knots were undone, Nathan threw the ropes away and pulled Benoit out of the chair.

"C'me on, kid, hush - _être tranquille_." Nathan urged. "We can't let them hear us." He raised a finger to his lips to get the message across, and Benoit nodded tearfully, covering his mouth to stifle his sobs. Nathan stepped over the fallen guard and looked out the window. "I don't see anyone…" He turned back and knelt in front of Benoit, placing his hands on the young boy's shaking shoulders. "Benoit, I need you to listen carefully-"

"_S'il vous plaît! Est-Papa à venir? Je veux rentrer à la maison!_" (Please! Is Papa coming? I want to go home!) Benoit whimpered, fresh tears collecting in his eyes. Nathan brushed some of the little boy's hair out of his face, smearing blood from a small cut above his eye across his forehead.

"Benoit, listen…" Nathan pleaded. "You need to go get help. _Obtenez de l'aide_. Find your Papa…okay?" Benoit started crying again. "Kid, please." Nathan swallowed to keep his own voice steady. He had to be the hero in this situation, even if he himself wanted to break down and cry for his father. "I'll make sure no one follows you. _Je vais m'assurer que vous échapper_." (I'll make sure you get away). The little boy choked on a sob.

"_Comment dois-je les trouver_?" (How am I supposed to find them?) He cried. "_Que dois-je faire_?" (What do I do?) Nathan paused, then let out a whimper of his own and hugged the little boy.

"Just….just find your Papa, kid…" He repeated. "_Trouvez votre Papa, et rester avec lui_." (Find your Papa, and stay with him.) Nathan pulled back, and yanked Alfred's Korean War dog tags off his neck. He pressed the tags into Benoit's hand, and closed the child's fingers around them. "Run, Benoit. _Exécuter, et ne regarde pas en arrière_." (Run, and don't' look back.)

Nathan stood up and pulled Benoit over to the window, lifting him over the unconscious guard. From there, the young American reached up and pushed open the window as far as it would open. A blast of freezing wind invaded the stuffy, moldy room. The opening was fairly wide, but not enough for Nathan himself to squeeze through.

Benoit started to cry and shake his head. "_Non! Je ne peux pas le faire! J'ai peur!_" (No! I can't do it! I'm scared!) He sobbed. "_Je veux mon Papa_!" (I want my Papa!) He hiccuped as Nathan bent down and lifted him up. The older boy paused for a moment and pressed his forehead to the younger boy's, leaving another bloody smear from a cut on his own face.

"_Désolé_, kid…" He sighed. Nathan lowered Benoit through the gap in the window, though he had to drop him the last three feet. Benoit landed in the soft snow and scrambled to his feet, sobbing, to look back up at the older boy.

"_Où puis-je aller_?" (Where do I go?) He whimpered.

"_Orient_." (East.) Nathan pointed out the direction across the snow. "Run until you find your Papa." He ordered urgently. The guard on the floor would be coming to soon, and it wouldn't be long before another arrived to check in on them. If an escape was to be made, it had to happen now. "Don't stop, and Do. Not. Look back. Do you hear me?" Nathan ordered. Benoit flinched at his sharp tone, but nodded tearfully. Nathan sighed. "_Allez_." (Go.) He ordered. "_Maintenant!_" (Now!)

Benoit turned and scrambled across the empty, snow covered parking lot of the warehouse they had been held in. There was nothing to be seen in the endless white but more white and a grey sky, but after several minutes of terrified running, the young native of Rennes, France couldn't even see the place he'd escaped from.

Benoit began to cry as he ran. The places where the men had grabbed him and attacked him with sharp things really hurt, and many were leaving a trail of red across the snow. The cold was seeping through his clothing - clothing his Papa had bought him - at a frightening pace, and it wasn't long until Benoit couldn't feel his hands, feet or face.

He tried to keep running, he really did, but he just felt so tired….a dark fear knotted in the little boy's stomach when he suddenly tripped and toppled headfirst into a snowdrift. He pulled himself up and rolled over enough to wipe the frozen water away from his face. "P-Papa…." Benoit sobbed, his voice cracking in the cold. "_Je veux mon Papa_ ..." (I want my Papa…)

"Benoit!" His eyes snapped open and he looked around frantically. "Benoit!" The voice called again.

"P-Papa!" The small child shouted, his teeth chattering unconsciously. "Papa! _S'il vous plaît sauvez-moi!_" (Papa! Please save me!) He screamed, struggling to search out his beloved parent through the white. A pair of warm arms suddenly swept him up out of the snow, and he was cradled against a comfortingly familiar chest.

"Benoit!" France sighed heavily in relief. "_Oh, mon fils! Ne vous inquiétez pas, papa est là maintenant. Ne pleure pas ..."_ (Oh, my son! Don't worry, Papa's here now. Don't cry…) He soothed. Benoit sobbed, burying his face in his father's chest as he was wrapped in the folds of his father's cloak.

"Papa…Papa, Nathan _m'a fait quitter. Ils vont lui faire de mal!_" (Nathan made me leave. They're going to hurt him!) He sobbed. France gently shushed his youngest son, wrapping him tightly in his cloak (why hadn't he thought to bring a warmer jacket?) as he turned and hurried back to where he'd left England and America. When he reached the two waiting nations, both rushed forward to check on the child. England attempted to look at the blood smeared across Benoit's face, but the little boy refused to pull away from his father, even for a moment. America zeroed in on something clutched in his shaking hands.

"Hey…what's that he's holding?" France glanced at his son's hand, and gently prized open the frozen fingers.

"_Tout va bien maintenant, mon fils. Vous pouvez laisser aller. Permettez-Papa vous aider à réchauffer_." (It's okay now, my son. You can let go. Let Papa get you warmed up.) He whispered soothingly. Slowly, Benoit let go of the object, and America pulled the decades old dog tags from his grip. His heart immediately sank as he recognized the worn slips of printed metal. England must have caught this look, for he sighed.

"Nathan…?" The former empire inquired softly.

"He must still be trapped." America's hand clenched around the dog tags. "Those mafia bastards still have him!"

"_Il m'a fait sortir ..._" (He got me out….) Benoit whimpered. "_Il m'a dit de trouver de l'aide ..._" (He told me to find help…) He buried his face in his father's shoulder with a keening whine. "_Papa, vous avez pour le faire sortir ..._" (Papa, you have to get him out...) France gently shushed his son.

"_Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon fils ... nous ..._" (Don't worry, my son...we will...) He promised. Benoit whined and huddled close to his father, shivering in the snow-laden wind. England frowned.

"France, get him back to the car. Let's get the poor thing warmed up." France nodded, then hurried back through the snow of the empty DC streets, with England in tow. America turned to look in the direction Benoit had been running from.

"They can't be far." He decided out loud. "Benoit couldn't have run that far; not in this weather." America wrapped the dog tags around his hand, then closed his fingers around them. "I'm going to kill that Russian bastard..." He growled softly.

* * *

Predictably, this didn't make the cut. Nathan can't, in "CotN", speak French (or anything beyond English and a tiny bit of Russian).


	3. Other Applications of the Plus Sign

A short scenario featuring Svetlana and Nathan. Not so much of a spoiler, since I spilled this a few chapters back in "CotN". XD

* * *

He was dead. Fallen. Slain. Six feet under. Slaughtered. Extinct. Pushing up daisies. There was NO WAY he could successfully explain this without departing from the mortal coil.

Nathan Cameron groaned and let his forehead thunk against the cool surface of the bathroom mirror. There was no way he could do this….but oh God, if the man found out any OTHER way….was there something worse than death? Purgatory? No wait, he couldn't die. He'd probably just get tortured eternally. That was worse.

"Sweetheart…are you aright in there?" Svetlana eased open the door and peaked inside. "Nathan…?" She moved inside and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "…have you figured out a way to tell him yet?"

"Yes." Nathan gestured to a scrap of paper sitting on the sink, with a list of options scrawled in his chickenscratch handwriting. "A total of six, actually. Four get me killed instantly. Two get me tortured for eternity." He tilted his head back to rest it on the taller woman's shoulder. "Why can't you tell him?" He whined. Svetlana sighed.

"Because then, he really will kill you." She explained. Nathan groaned. "There is no easy way to do this, _моя любовь._" (my love) Svetlana frowned. "We either tell him and hope for the best, or wait until i start to show and run for our lives."

"You mean MY life." Nathan growled half-heartedly. "Daddy's little girl would be completely free of blame."

"Da."

"...you suck." Nathan decided. He banged his head against the mirror again. "...if he kills me, will you name the baby after me?"

"If it is a boy, da."

"Thanks..."

* * *

"Russia….you're a grandpa." He frowned. "No, no…that's not it…um…..Russia, I knocked up your daughter…NO." Nathan paced outside the coffee shop where he was supposed to be meeting the psychologically unstable northern nation. Passers by were giving him odd looks, but none stopped to question the nervous American pacing on the sidewalk.

"Uh…what about….I know we're not married, but we're official!…no. Um….I know you sort of hate my dad…but…y-you're related now! ….oh hell no." Nathan groaned and leaned against the wall. "I can't do this…I can't tell Russia I got his daughter pregnant!"

"You got my daughter WHAT?" Nathan felt his heart shrivel up in fear. He slowly turned around, and then looked up, wide-eyed, at the towering Russian, who was radiating his usual purple aura and 'I'm-going-to-KILL-YOU' smile.

"….th-that didn't come out right…" He squeaked. Russia's hand grabbed the front of Nathan's shirt and dragged the poor boy up on his toes, to the point where he wasn't really sure if he were standing or dangling. "I-I can explain!"

"I hope so." Russia smiled malevolently. "I would hate to hurt you over a simple misunderstanding, da?" Nathan whined.

He was SO dead.

* * *

Not the scenario that made the cut, but you all knew this was coming. XD


	4. The Pirate's Daughter

Another idea that didn't quite make the cut - this time, because it didn't fit the setting, and I have no intentions of flashbacks.

* * *

He was roused by a bucket of cold seawater to his face. Aside from the shocking temperature, the salt seemed to find every cut and gash and whip mark on his skin and make it burn like fire. He coughed, gagging, and automatically reached up to wipe the saltwater away from his eyes. A hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head up roughly.

"Fin'lly awake, are ye?" A harsh voice laughed. The hand threw him back against the hull of the cargo hold. "Bout time. Ye've gotta visitor." The pirate picked up the now-empty bucket and walked away, laughing. The scrawny victim, chained to the hull by the ankles, sat up and gingerly cracked his back. He groaned and leaned back against the wood, trying to remember how the hell he ended up in this situation.

"Seasick yet, Ally?" A slim figure sauntered up to his cell and leaned against the wrought iron bars. "Told ye this's no place for a guy like yew." The figure smirked beneath the brim of their wide hat - pulled low - and crouched down to the prisoner's level. "How ye' doin', really? Can ye walk?"

"Not sure." The man croaked. His voice was weak and cracked from lack of water and overuse. The figure frowned, then tipped their hat back. Green eyes scrutinized the prisoner with concern usually locked far way from their fellow privateers. Now they noticed pale bruises forming beneath the battered skin. Dark purple and blue handprints, disheveled clothes, and blood that had no business being where ti was.

"….Ally, don't tell me that's why all those bastards were common down 'ere last night…" Pitiful blue eyes turned to green, shaded beneath a scraggly layer of dull blonde hair. Before he could even speak, that look told her everything.

"As if I have any choice…" Alphonse murmured. "I'm nothing down here, Laura…" A hand wound through the bars and wrapped around limp, bloody fingers.

"Not t'me, ye ain't." The pirate growled. "Keep your 'ead up, Ally. Cap'n's puttin' in ta shore at Port Royal t'night. Whole crew's taken shore leave. We'll be taken' a permanent one." Alphonse looked up, and Laura smiled, her voice lowering. "Just you an me, me buck. Free as the wind. Yew won't 'ave t'be no bilge-drnkin' bastard's sex toy." She pulled back and pulled a silver coin from a small pouch on her belt.

She drew a knife from this same belt, slashed her palm, and smeared the blood across the coin. This, she held up for Alphonse to see. "Give me your hand." Alphonse obediently held out one hand. Laura gently slashed a shallow gash across his palm, then pressed the coin over the wound. She entwined her fingers with his, trapping the coin between their hands.

"'tis me promise. Me word. Come tomorrow, ye 'n I are out o' this. Together 'til th' seas dry up. As our blood runs together, so does our destiny. We've hornswaggled every taboo 'n stigma thar be in this world, 'n we'll do it again when th' sun rises. 'n each 'n every day aft that." Laura pulled her hand back, pulling Alphonse forward, until he was close enough to the bars for her to kiss his grimy forehead.

"I love ye, Ally. Why, I be nah sure, but that's enough fer me." She twisted their hands, then pulled away, leaving the bloody coin in Alphonse's hand. Laura lay her hand against his cheek, a tender gesture ruined by the blood that stained their skin. "Stay strong, Ally. I'll be back fer ye afore dawn." Laura stood then, pulling the brim of her hat down to hide her eyes, and trotted up the stairs to the deck. Alphonse held the coin close for a moment, before leaning back against the hull and closing his eyes.

* * *

The ship was utterly silent as the stars rose. All but two of the crew were off drinking, gambling or otherwise wasting their share of the treasure they'd accumulated over the last few months. Laura Archer - better known, in these times, as Floggin' Molly - leaned against the rail of the deck. She twirled a boarding axe in one hand, appearing utterly bored. "….ahoy ye!" She called across to the other guard left behind. "Ye bored?" The fellow pirate nodded. Laura nodded her head toward the shore.

"Why don't ye go enjoy y'self? i'll watch th' ship. I be banned from th' pubs here, anyways. Can nah go ashore t' drink, so why bother." The other pirate didn't even hesitate. Why turn down a free offer to skip work? He passed 'Floggin' Molly' a grateful nod, hopped down the gangplank, and quickly disappeared into the town. Laura twirled her boarding axe. "Rum-cravin' addict." She quickly raided the Captain's quarters, smashing the lock with the boarding axe, and cleaned out the space.

She stole a pack, and filled it with whatever she could grab from the room - maps, small weapons, jewels, coins, tools - before she tied it shut and went back out on deck. She quickly checked to make sure that no half-drunk corsairs were heading home early, then rushed down into the brig. "Ally," She banged on the cell. "Rise 'n shine. Come on, 'tis time t' go." She pulled the jailor's keys out of the pack and quickly unlocked the door.

Kneeling, Laura unlocked the shackles around Alphonse's ankles and tossed them aside. She helped the battered man to his feet, slinging one of his arms over her shoulders. "Easy, Ally…." She helped him up the stairs, across the deck, and down the gangplank, while balancing the stolen pack on her other shoulder. "Hurry now, we needs t' get as far as possible as fast as possible." Laura tugged Alphonse along until they were a safe distance from the ship, then she stopped, took off her hat, and dropped it on his head.

"Ye needs t' blend in more." She decided, unwinding a scarf plundered from a merchant vessel from around her neck and wrapping it around Alphonse's, partially covering his face. "Yer already grimy 'nuff."

"Gee….thanks…" Laura cringed.

"Er...don't natter, mate. Ye sound like a frog." She grabbed his hand, and in doing so, entwined their fingers. "Come on, me love. I plundered enough booty t' get us a ship 'n a new life. Jus' keep up 'til th' next town, 'n we can rest thar." Laura leaned in under the brim of the hat, and kissed Alphonse, tightening her hand in his. "Together 'til th' seas run dry, love…" She promised.

She gave the shorter man one last reassuring kiss, and then pirate and prisoner stole away into the night.

* * *

...I'm starting to think Laura and Alphonse are my way of satisfying FrUK without upsetting the USUK fans. XD


	5. Kidnapped

An extension of the kidnapping scene from "CotN" Ch. 32. I wrote it, but it didn't seem to fit the flow of the chapter, so I kept it out. Enjoy!

* * *

The back door was unlocked, and easily inched open until his large frame could slip through. He could hear his target in the kitchen at the heart of the first floor, frantically dialing a number. He heard a curse as the target only got to voicemail, and started to leave a message. He eased the door closed and crept into the kitchen, drawing a switchblade from his belt as he approached from behind. "That is quite enough." Whispered Luka Vanko with a smile as he pressed the blade against the young American's throat. "Say bye-bye, now."

"….b-bye, Dad…." Nathan managed to choke out. Luka took the phone from his hand and dropped it firmly in the cradle.

"Good boy." He smiled darkly and pushed Nathan toward the living room. "Now move." Luka marched Nathan back through the house and out onto the back porch, where he stopped. "Now Nathan," Luka smiled, still pressing the blade to the shorter American's throat from behind. "I know you not stupid enough to fight me. But I do not like hassle." He spun Nathan around and pushed him back against the railing, wearing a frightening smile. "Sorry, but I like my prey to watch." Quicker than his big frame would let most believe, Luka's elbow struck out and connected with Nathan's chin.

The young 'nationling' was knocked backwards over the railing of the porch, but Luka grabbed him by the hair before he could fall and threw him back onto the deck. In the same movement, he dropped on Nathan's stomach, winding him, and then slammed his arm into the American's nose. Not unconscious, but gasping for breath and much more manageable now, Nathan groaned and fell back on the deck, blood dripping from a broken nose and cut gums.

Luka stood up, then picked up a roll of duct tape from a wrought iron shelf of assorted tools sitting by the porch door. He used this to bind Nathan's arms behind his back, and tape over his mouth. Then Luka pulled out his cell phone. "Здравствуйте, Алексей," (Hello, Alexi,) Luka grinned. "Я вам сказал, что его найдут. Скажите Дмитрий, что теперь он мне должен $ 200?" (I told you I would find him. Will you tell Dimitri that he now owes me $200?) Nathan groaned and turned his head, blood already seeping out from behind the tape and loosening it.

"Bastard…" He muttered weakly. Luka frowned.

"Извините меня за минуту, Алексей." (Excuse me for moment, Alexi.) Luka kicked Nathan swiftly in the head, and knocked the young man unconscious. "Don't you know it rude to interrupt adults when they are talking?" He asked, though Nathan could, in no way, respond. Smirking, Luka returned to his phone call. "Мы встретимся Аня на железнодорожной станции. Мы доставим его в шесть часов." (We will meet Anya at the train station. We will deliver him within six hours.) He promised.

Luka hung up and looked down at the unconscious Nathan. Seeing as the tape was no longer needed, the Bratva member bent down and peeled the loose, bloody tape from Nathan's mouth. "Ech. That is gross." He tossed the tape away with a flick of his wrist, then lifted Nathan in a fireman's carry and hiked away from the home with his limp captive.

* * *

...yes. Luka's last name was shamelessly ripped from Ivan Vanko of "Ironman 2".


	6. Something to Think About

Something that didn't quite make it, and though the idea shall survive, it has changed since this.

* * *

The city of New York had never felt so cold before.

A young boy wandered down the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain that drove so many New Yorkers back into their homes. He was cold, in fact, he was shivering, but he had no more than a ragged T-shirt to protect him from the cold. He shuffled through the downpour with a blank stare, hugging himself for the little warmth it would bring.

This sad figure is what caught the eye of one Alfred F. Jones. He'd been driving by, nice and dry in his car, and while stopped at a red light, he'd seen the boy wander past. He couldn't have been more than sixteen - fourteen, at the youngest. He was absolutely soaked, and his ragged shirt stuck to his tiny frame, revealing a torso that was too thin to be healthy. The boy was shivering, and looked lost, blue eyes were dull behind a pair of twisted, broken glasses.

Now, Alfred cared about all his citizens, but something felt different about this kid. Like the connection was deeper….it was the same feeling Alfred had for his states, and Nathan, the son he'd had with a human. For a second, Alfred panicked, wondering if he'd slept with any other women and forgot about it. Once he'd assured himself that, no, El Cameron was the only woman he'd gone that far with (without protection), he turned to another option.

Had one of his states had a one night stand gone bad? No-one had brought up that thought at the meeting…a lot of them had states and territories that had representatives. Could there be a chance that this kid…..was…..his grandson? Alfred stopped that train of thought and put it on hold. That may be jumping a little too far ahead for the moment. The boy wandered across the crosswalk, and stumbled in front of Alfred's car, disappearing from sight. Alfred leaned forward in a moment of concern. The boy stood up a moment later, looking shocked, a little dazed, and with a trickle of blood running down from his nose.

Alfred threw open the door and leapt out of the car, tossing off his seatbelt. Ignoring the rain, he rushed around to the front of the car and grabbed the kid's shoulder. "Kid," The boy jumped in shock and nearly fell again in his haste to turn around. "Hey, are you alright?" Alfred asked. The boy just stared at him, wide eyed, as though shocked anyone were speaking to him. The blood from his nose trickled into the corner of his mouth, and he suddenly gasped, hands flying up to his face. "Hey, hey kid, easy…" Alfred tried to calm him down. "It's just a nosebleed."

"N-no!" The boy gasped. "I-I'm hemophilic! I-i-it won't stop!" Alfred paused. Hemophilic…he knew that word….that meant…

"Shit." Alfred dragged the boy around the car and threw open the passenger door. "Get in. I'm taking you to the hospital." He didn't wait for the boy to reply, pulled the seatbelt around him, and clicked it firmly before slamming the door and sliding across the hood to hop back in the driver's side. He yanked on his own seatbelt and took off, just as the light was turning yellow. Thankfully, not many people were out on the streets at this time. Alfred faced no traffic as he sped down the streets, trying to get to the hospital as fast as possible without getting pulled over or hydroplaning. He glanced across at the boy trembling in his passenger seat, bloody hands plastered to his face. "What's your name?"

"….w-wha'?" The boy stammered.

"What's your name?" Alfred pressed. "Mine's Alfred."

"….J-Jesse…" The boy replied shakily, voice muffled through his hands.

"Good, good…" Alfred muttered. As long as he could keep the kid talking, he would know if he slipped into unconsciousness. "What were you doing out in the rain? You know, it's a lot more comfortable to be dry."

"….I-I was looking for my b-brother…" Jesse stammered out. "We got s-separated….before the rain started…" Alfred frowned when Jesse trailed off.

"What's your brother's name?" He asked. Jesse didn't answer for a minute, his eyes starting to roll back. Alfred reached over and shook the boy's shoulder. "Hey, kid! Stay with me. What's your brother's name?"

"…K-Kevin…" Jesse came to. "Kuma…." Alfred blinked.

"Eh? Kuma?" He repeated. Jesse nodded slowly.

"…we found him…on the street….in Fort Erie….he's our dog…." Jesse's head began to loll backwards against the headrest. "I-….I can't…..think…" His eyes rolled back. Alfred cursed loudly and turned into the hospital parking lot. He parked quickly and leapt out of the car. He rushed around to the other side, threw open the door and grabbed Jesse, lifting him beneath his shoulders and knees - the boy's head rolled back limply, spilling blood down his neck - and raced inside the hospital.

* * *

"Alfred Jones?" The doctor looked up from his clipboard as a blonde man with glasses and a brown flight jacket stood up in the waiting room. "Follow me, please." The doctor led the man down a hallway to a room with the shades pulled down, opened the door, and gestured him in. On the bed, Jesse was sleeping, totally dead to the world. He was still wearing his bloodstained shirt and soaked clothes, though the blood had been cleaned away from his face and throat.

"Please, sit down." The doctor nodded Alfred toward a chair set up beside the bed. Alfred obediently sat down. "Mr. Jones…I understand you found Jesse…" He paused to check the medical file on his clipboard. "…Ouelette on the street?" Alfred nodded.

"Yes, sir. I was at a red light, he was crossing. He tripped, and came up with a bloody nose. I got out to make sure he was alright, and he told me he was hemophilic." Alfred explained. "I drove him straight here, but he passed out right when we arrived." The doctor nodded.

"I see. So you have no prior relation to him?" He clarified.

"No sir." Alfred replied. The doctor wrote something down.

"Well, Mr. Jones….now you do. Jesse Ouelette has no known living family, and his file says he was born in Fort Erie, Canada. We were unable to find a birth certificate, so he won't be deported, but he will be sent to a temporary placement home when he is released." The doctor finished writing and capped his pen. "Doctor Mallard will be in soon to tell you more." He left. Alfred listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, then looked over at Jesse.

Now that the kid's nose wasn't pouring blood, Alfred could get a good look at his features. For some reason, he was reminded most strongly of Vincent Angel, the state of New York. Alfred frowned. Perhaps he should give Vincent a call…..it had been a while since they'd talked, anyway. The door opened again, and Alfred looked up as Dr. Mallard entered.

The man was older than the prior doctor, with grey hair and small spectacles perched upon his nose. He looked more like a grandfather in a lab coat, especially when he gave Alfred a friendly smile. Of course, he all but was, to Alfred - and his states, for that matter. Even they needed a doctor or two who knew how to handle nations and the like. "Mr. Jones." Dr. Mallard greeted. "Pleasure to see you again. I want to thank you for bringing Jesse in. Another person may not have been so concerned, and left the poor boy to bleed to death." Alfred blinked.

"Wait…you know this kid?" He asked.

"I do," Dr. Mallard nodded. "He's been in here quite a few times over the years…though he's usually accompanied by his elder brother. Occasionally Officer Angel, of NYPD." Alfred blinked. Whoa. Coincidence #2. "Poor fellow," Dr. Mallard continued. "According to the records Officer Angel dug up upon my request, Jesse and his brother Kevin were abandoned by their respective mothers at young ages, and both wound up in the same gang in Fort Erie, Canada. They grew up among violence, and with Jesse's myriad of health concerns, it couldn't have been easy."

"Wait," Alfred interrupted. "He has more than one?"

"Hemophilic, mild narcolepsy, hypnagogic hallucinations…" Dr. Mallard rattled off. "To be quite honest, if not for Kevin, poor Jesse wouldn't have lived past the age of eight." He shook his head. "It's a bona fide miracle he lived this long…" At this, the man paused. "…Mr. Jones, my college, Doctor Edward, from Bristol, has already informed me about the nations and the hybrid children." He explained. "And I can't help but wonder…..are you sure only the nations are responsible?" Alfred froze.

"….uh…wh-what d' you mean, Doc?" He asked.

"I mean - and let me put this bluntly, for your benefit - have any of your states had unprotected sex with women in the last thirty years?"

* * *

Tiny bit of a spoiler, and yet, not really - Jessie lives, but he's not the grandson of America anymore *coughhackCANADAcoughhack*. Also, I seem to be following a LONG-short-LONG pattern...and Dr. Mallard may or may not have been ripped off from NCIS...


	7. We Are Alone

A snippet insipired by a very good point brought up by The-Goldstein-Sharpshooter. Markus, the Son of Germany, is a former Nazi soldier. Konrad, the eldest son of Prussia, is a Holocaust survivor. What would happen if they had met before...?

* * *

Markus Kaiser really hated his job.

This wasn't unusual for most people. Most people had a desk job they despised but needed to pay the bills, or worked for an employer they just couldn't stand. Some were even lucky enough to have their own small business that just wasn't going well. Most people were lucky enough to have their own opinions at the end of the day. Most people were lucky enough to have a choice in the future.

Markus was not that lucky.

His job was, quite possibly, the worst imaginable. His job was to guard poor, unfortunate souls. His job was to watch them beaten, broken, and starved until, at last, they were gifted with blissful death, or fed to the ravenous fires of the crematorium. His job was to keep them from escaping this hell. His job was to go against every shred of moral value and dignity he held dear.

His job was killing him.

Markus, unlike those so lucky to have normal jobs they could hate freely, did not have a choice. To refuse to join the army was to be sent to the camps yourself, and to desert meant death. So, to preserve his own life, he was sentencing other innocents to theirs. Markus really, REALLY hated his job.

He pulled his cap down lower over his eyes as he walked past another cabin, trying not to make eye contact with the skin-and-bone figures huddled around the doors. Not because he didn't see them as people, but because, if he looked, his would lose what little he'd managed to eat for breakfast that morning. He felt sick, and sometimes thought that stopping this was worth death.

Unfortunately, death would not come so easily for him. It had taken him fifty years to appear 16, and it would be another seventy before he looked older than twenty. Life was like his curse; he'd been run over by trucks, stabbed and beaten - even shot several times. Still, he lived. It wasn't immortality, for he could feel the cold grip of death each time he breathed that last breath…..but what it was that fought off the Reaper and cursed him to open his eyes again each time, he didn't know.

The young soldier stopped in the space between two cabins, out of sight of the 'older' camp guards, and knocked quietly on the top of a stack of crates. After a moment, there was a soft knocking in return, and Markus moved to the back of the crates, where he lifted up the tarp that covered them and crawled beneath it. Inside, the crates were hollowed out - jagged spikes of wood and nails ringed the small enclosure, but provided enough space for the two men. Markus sat up on his knees and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small package of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth.

"I vasn't able to get any more," He handed the food to the pale skinned figure huddled on the far side of the enclosure. "But it should be enough for tonight." He kept his voice quiet - no guards watched the backs of the cabins at this camp, but it would ruin all their careful planning if they were heard. "I vill come back for you when the guard changes, and I vill let us out the east wall." Red eyes looked up at him, recovered enough from long days of starvation and torment to be suspicious.

"Vy are you helping me?" The albino asked. "I thought you vere one of them." Markus shifted.

"…..because you are like me." He explained. The red eyes widened. "I have seen them beat you, stab you - shoot you! Any lesser man vould have died from such vounds. You did not." Markus unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it open, tugging down the neck of his black shirt to reveal a long jagged scar, still red, despite having years to heal.

"The Reaper appears to have rejected me, as well." He sighed. "Ve seem to be a long in the vorld. If ve have no-von else but each other…then vhy vould I let you die?" Markus tugged his jacket closed. "The vorld we live in is harsh enough to innocent people…I do not vish to face it alone." The albino was silent for a long minute. Then, he raised a thin, bony, shaking hand to grasp Markus' shoulder.

"I hope to God that you have planned this vell, brother." Markus smiled grimly.

"That makes two ov us."

* * *

First time writing (or attempting to write) a German accent, and again, following the pattern of LONG-short-LONG. This may or may not become canon - unlike the other "Missing Moments", this snippet was written before Markus and Konrad actually meet in "CotN".


	8. Snatched

Just a little snippet that didn't quite make it...or did it?

* * *

As soon as the car had stopped, Benoit wriggled out of his seatbelt. He hopped out of the car and landed in the snow with a crunch, giggling as he hopped forward, getting a crisp crunch each time. Alphonse smiled as he climbed out of the car along with France. "_Bénéficiant le frère peu de neige?_" (Enjoying the snow, little brother?) He smiled. Benoit looked back with a wide eyed grin.

"_Oui!_" (Yes!) He giggled. "_Il est doux et croquant_!" (It's soft and crunchy!) The little boy hopped back onto the driveway and ran over to France, leaving a trail of white on the shoveled flagstones. "_Papa! Papa, je peux aller jouer dans la neige_?" (Papa! Papa, can I go play in the snow?) He asked excitedly, reaching up to grasp France's hand pleadingly.

Really, how could anyone say 'no' to such a face?

France had to shake himself free of his thoughts to answer, kneeling down to give that hopeful little face a smile.

"_Bien sûr, mon fils_!" (Of course, my son!) He patted Benoit's hair, already speckled with some of the snowflakes from the light flurry. "_Il suffit de ne pas rester trop longtemps. Vous ne voulez pas attraper froid, non?_" (Just do not stay out too long. You do not want to catch cold, no?) Benoit nodded obediently.

"Oui, Papa!" (Yes, Papa!) Then he turned and raced through the snow toward the backyard of France's home, laughing. France stood up, smiling, and turned to face his eldest son.

"_Maintenant, nous allons à l'intérieur_." (Now, inside we go,) He directed, looping an arm around the shorter blonde's slim shoulders. "_Je vais vous apprendre à cuisiner! Aucun de mes fils est traverser la vie avec les compétences de cuisine de l'Angleterre!_" (I am going to teach you to cook! No son of mine shall go through life with England's kitchen skills!) He laughed as they went inside.

Meanwhile, in the backyard, Benoit had found a stick beneath the snow, and was now twirling it around like a wand, chasing snowflakes across the blanket of white and fighting off imaginary villains. It was cold outside, but the fluffy jacket his Papa had bought him kept him warm, even as he ran beneath the branches of low trees and broke off icicles, to see how far he could throw them before they disappeared in the snow.

The little boy was having the time of his life as he ran along the wooden fence, trailing the stick over the planks and lost in his own little world. Too late, he found the dip in the grass, and landed face first with a poof of snow. Benoit sat up and scrubbed the cold white powder off his face, giggling at himself. He looked around for his stick, and found it lying near a hole in the fence a few meters away. He got up and ran over to grab it.

Suddenly, a larger hand grabbed his.

"_Эй Demitri, я получил маленький._" (Hey Demitri, I got the little one.) The hand tightened and another reached out of the darkness, clamping around the little boy's waist as he started to struggle. Tears welled up in Benoit's eyes as he squirmed, whining piteously.

"_Papa, mon frère! Aidez-moi! Les hommes sont mauvais ici!_" (Papa! Brother! Help me! The bad men are here!) The Bratva member growled and tried to cover the boy's mouth, but Benoit panicked and bit him. The Russian yowled and dropped the little boy in the snow. Benoit scrambled up and raced back toward the house, still screaming.

A second voice cursed in Russian, and a hand grabbed the hood of Benoit's jacket, jerking the child to a halt. Terrified, Benoit wriggled out of the jacket and kept running, immediately feeling the cold biting through his blue long-sleeved shirt.

"_Вернись, ты, мальчишка!_" (Get back here, you little brat!) He was grabbed by his arm this time, and wretched off his feet, kicking and screaming. Demitri growled and walked back to his partner, Viktor. "_Можем ли мы нокаутирую его, что ли_?" (Can we knock him out or something?) He growled, struggling to keep a hold on the squirming ten year old. "_Алексей не сказал мальчишка будет устраивать драку_." (Alexi didn't say the brat would put up a fight.) Viktor shook his head.

"_Количество Мы не должны делать им больно_." (No. We're not supposed to hurt them.) He reminded Demitri. "_Количество Мы не должны делать им больно_." (But if you're going to whine about it, give him to me.) Demitri gratefully handed over the squirming child, who wailed and started sobbing for his father and brother. Viktor tightened his grip a little to still the child, but said nothing. "_Убедитесь, что мы не видели_." (Make sure we were not seen.) He ordered. Demitri growled, but waved a hand and crept toward the house through the trees.

He hadn't taken more than two steps outside the trees when he was tacked to the ground with surprising strength. Hands fastened around his throat, and suddenly, the Bratva member was pinned down by a furious Frenchman wielding a kitchen knife. He barely had time to register furious blue eyes before cold steel was pressed against his throat.

"_Qu'avez-vous fait avec mon fils_?" (What have you done with my boy?)

* * *

What do you all think...?


	9. AU: 1

Can you write an AU for your own story? I'm not sure...but this idea sprang up, and it won't go away. The entire thing is too long to be a "Missing Moments" segment...

This is only a temporary chapter - once I get some good feedback on this idea, it will be taken down/replaced.

* * *

He had found the boy on the side of the road.

Having just arrived in France to attend that month's world meeting, he had decided to take a taxi to his hotel, rather than rent a car. He didn't feel up to driving yet, and winter was approaching. He could barely remember which side of the road he had to drive on, let alone to watch out for black ice and stuff like that.

Two hours into the ride, he'd given up making small talk with the driver. His French wasn't that horrible - the woman just really didn't want to talk to him. So he'd tried counting license plates. That hadn't lasted long. So he'd tried napping. That hadn't lasted long either. So, with an uncomfortable crick in his neck and a longing for his hotel bed, America sat back in his seat and stared out the window at the passing countryside.

That's when he saw the boy.

He couldn't have been older than ten, with torn pants and an oversized shirt draped over his frail body. He was shuffling along through the grass on the side of the road, clutching something to his chest. America immediately sat up. "_Pouvez-vous arrêter ici? Très rapide_." (Can you stop here? Really fast.) He asked the driver. She nodded silently and pulled over to the side of the road ahead of the boy. America climbed out and approached the child, who was now staring at him with wide blue eyes.

He had to be a native. He even looked like France, for McDonald's sake. He had blue eyes, a thin, but not yet bony, frame, slim hands, and shoulder length blonde hair that, given a good wash, could probably shine just like the Frenchman's. The nation stopped and knelt down as soon as he got too close, and the boy took a step back. The kid looked terrified, holding a worn out, plush duck to his chest. It seemed to be his only possession.

"Uh…_Bonjour, mon petit._" (Hello, little one.) America smiled for the boy, trying to seem like a trustworthy person, despite his less-than-perfect French. "Um…_Vous êtes perdu_?" (Are you lost?) The boy didn't answer right away, but after a minute of watching the nation suspiciously, he nodded. The wind picked up for a moment, causing a wave along the grasses that surrounded the road, and America noticed the boy shivering in his oversized shirt. "…_vous avez l'air froid_." (…are you cold?)

"... _Je suis_ ..." (…I am…) The boy spoke this time. His voice was very timid and he spoke hesitantly, as if he expected to be cut off. "_Je suis très froid _..." (I am very cold…) America scooted a little closer, so that there was only a few feet between him and the boy. The French was starting to come back to him, now.

"_Souhaitez-vous venir avec moi?_" (Would you like to come with me?) He offered. The boy stared at him with wide eyes. "_Je peux vous des vêtements chauds. Souhaitez-vous que?_" (I can get you some warm clothes. Would you like that?) The little boy nodded hesitantly. America smiled and held out his hand to the boy. "_Viens ici._" (Come here.) The little boy hesitantly reached out to take the man's hand. America smiled. "_Bon garçon. Quel est votre nom? Je suis Alfred_." (Good boy. What is your name? I'm Alfred.)

"_Je suis Benoit_…" (I am Benoit…) The boy replied quietly as America stood up and led him back to the waiting taxi. " _... c'est Pierre_." (…this is Pierre.) He added after a minute, holding up his toy duck. America smiled.

"_Un bon nom._" (A good name.) He lifted the little boy into the taxi and slid in behind him. Once both were buckled in, the taxi driver pulled back onto the road and headed for the requested hotel. "…_où est votre famille, Benoit?_" (…where is your family, Benoit?) Amrica asked after a few minutes of silence. The little boy seemed to shrink in his seat and held Pierre closer.

"... _Je n'ai pas une famille_ ..." (…I don't have a family…) He admitted softly. The taxi driver cast a sorrowful look at him through the rearview mirror. America's eyes widened.

"What? No family?" He gasped. Benoit stared at him, eyes wide. America paused, his mind struggling to make the jump back to French. At this time, the taxi driver decided to speak up.

"_Saviez-vous venir d'une maison, mon fils_?" (Did you come from a home, son?) She asked, glancing back in the mirror. Benoit's lip trembled, and he hugged Pierre closer.

"_Oui manquez ... c'est fermé ... j'ai attendu toute la journée, et tous les autres enfants se ramassa ... personne n'est venu pour moi .._.." (Yes miss...it closed...I waited all day, and all the other children got picked up...no one came for me….) He whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes. "_Je ne savais pas quoi faire d'autre ..._" (I didn't know what else to do…) He sounded scared as America reached over and wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "_J'étais tout seul ._.." (I was all alone…)

"_Vous n'êtes pas seul, maintenant._" (You're not alone now.) America gave the little boy a hug. "_J'ai un ami qui peut vous aider. Son nom est Francis. Souhaitez-vous lui répondre_?" (I have a friend who can help. His name is Francis. Would you like to meet him?) He asked. Benoit sniffed and wiped at his eyes.

"_Oui, s'il vous plait…_" (Yes, please…) He calmed down a bit, sinking into America's arms as if he hadn't had a hug in years. "…_peut-il vraiment aider_?" (…can he really help?) He asked timidly. America smiled.

"_Bien sûr. Il n'avait jamais refuser une personne aussi mignon que vous_." (Of course. He'd never turn down someone as cute as you.) He tapped Benoit on the nose. The little boy giggled shyly.

"_Votre française des drôles de bruits ..._" (Your French sounds funny…) He pointed out quietly, hiding a small smile behind Pierre. America just smiled.

When they arrived at the hotel, America thanked the taxi driver, and paid her a little extra for the unanticipated stop. He lifted his suitcase easily onto one shoulder, and held his free hand out to Benoit. The little boy clung to his hand, and trailed after the nation like a puppy as they went inside. He'd never been around so many people before. It was really scary, to him. America kept a hold of the boy's hand as he checked in, and then led him down the hall to his room on the first floor.

"Okay…" America set his suitcase down and looked at Benoit. "_Vous avez la clé_?" (You have the key?) The little boy nodded and held up the room key. "Great!" America keyed into the room and ushered Benoit inside as he dragged in his suitcase. "Now…let's get you some warmer clothes…" He closed the door behind him and knelt down, unzipping and digging through his suitcase in the middle of the living room of the suite. Benoit just watched as clothing was scattered all across the floor.

"Aha!" America pulled out a white shirt and held it up triumphantly. It was skin-tight on him, but it should be a good fit on Benoit, if not a little baggy. Certainly better than the ragged shirt he had on now. "This should work." He held at the shirt to the boy. "_Essayez ceci. Nous pouvons vous obtenir des pantalons plus tard._" (Try this. We can get you some pants later.) Benoit shyly accepted the garment, sitting Pierre on the coffee table.

"_Je vous remercie de m'avoir permis d'emprunter ce, M. Alfred ._.." (Thank you for letting me borrow this, Mr. Alfred…) He changed into the shirt, smiling shyly and wrapping his arms around himself with the warm fabric. America chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair.

"_Pas de problème, gamin_." (No trouble, kid.) He smiled. He stood up and picked up Benoit, walking back to the bedroom section. There were two single beds - strictly because the international superpower enjoyed jumping across from one to the other. He sat Benoit on one of the beds and knelt down. "_Avez-vous faim ou mal_?" (Are you hungry or hurt?) He asked. Benoit shook his head.

"_Non, monsieur, je ne suis pas blessé, et je n'ai pas faim_." (No sir, I am not hurt, and I am not hungry.) He replied quietly. America raised an eyebrow at a low gurgling sound.

"You sure about that?" He smirked. Benoit gave him a sheepish smile, able to recognize the man's playful tone of voice, if not his words. America smiled. "_Attendez ici, ok?_" (Wait here, okay?" He told the child as he stood up. "I'll go get us something to eat." Benoit nodded, and America grabbed the room key andwandered down to the breakfast area. Dinner was long over, but that small convenience store across the lobby was still open. It wasn't necessarily good food, but it was food either way.

When he returned to the room, however, he found Benoit, fast asleep on the bed, with his toy duck wrapped up in his arms. America smiled and left the food on the counter of the small kitchen. That could wait until morning. He gently pulled the extra quilt at the foot of the bed over the child, making sure he was nice and snug, before shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He should finish writing that speech on global warming he had to give at the meetings tomorrow...

But that could wait, too.

America changed into a sleep shirt, and curled up in the second bed with a sigh. He remembered to take off Texas before his eyes drifted closed. Why were hotel beds always so soft and fluffy and sleep inducing...?

* * *

By my reasoning, since America IS a melting pot, he probably knows enough to get by in a lot of languages - he just sticks to "American" English because it's easy and annoys England. Also, he spends so much time around his twin (who, remember, was RAISED by France), that he should know enough French for this chapter's needs. Also, this IS supposed to be AU. Things are different. A little.

But, as stated above, this IS just a test. I want to see how people would react to this idea...and to see if I can get away with an AU of my own story. XD


	10. Snow Sculpture

Here's a long chapter to fit the pattern. Just Nathan doing something special for Svetlana...

* * *

He stepped back and blew on his hands, trying to rekindle a little warmth in the frozen digits through his wool mittens. It had taken him all night, and most of the morning, but his creation was finally complete! He just had to make sure it didn't melt before Svetlana arrived…and replace all the food coloring he'd used….and everything would be perfect!

He headed back inside, shivering, and stomped the snow off his boots before crossing the threshold. Canada looked up from his pancake making as his nephew Nathan shuffled into the kitchen, looking cold and tired. The American nudged Kumajirou on the counter as he slumped into the nearest seat.

"Long night, eh?" The Canadian asked. Nathan smiled, as if hiding a secret.

"You could say that…" Kumajirou twitched an ear and sat up.

"You smell like food coloring." The bear sniffed. Canada cast him a soft glare. Nathan made a face.

"Yeah, well, you smell like rotten fish, but I don't go insulting YOU every morning…" Kumajirou growled a little, then huffily got up and stormed across the counter, pointedly curling up with his back to the American at the other end. "….touchy bear."

"Mean American." The bear shot back.

"Kumajirou…." Canada warned. The polar bear grumbled and buried his nose in his paws. Canada sighed. "Sorry…he's not a morning person, eh."

"I can see that…." Nathan quietly rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up. "Really cold out there, huh?" He commented. Canada chuckled.

"Yeah. January in Ottowa gets pretty cold, eh." He flipped the pancakes. "You weren't out there this morning, were you?" There was a long moment of silence, during which Nathan didn't reply. Canada turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"….can you keep a secret?" Nathan asked, grinning. Canada frowned.

"That depends….this isn't going to be like one of your father's secrets, is it? One that results in me getting yelled at and bailing him out of jail…?" He asked.

"Nonono, nothing like that!" Nathan grinned. "Look out the front window!" Removing the frying pan from the burner so the pancakes wouldn't burn, Canada shuffled out of the kitchen and obediently looked out the chosen window. He broke into a wide smile and chuckled.

"What is that, nine feet high, eh?" He asked.

"Ten, actually." Nathan smiled. "I built it under the tree so I wouldn't need a ladder as it got bigger."

"That….is paint or something, right?"

"Oh, yeah, of course! Which reminds me, I owe you about $40 worth of food coloring…"

* * *

"Hey, Mattie?" America took another giant bite of his pancakes, as his twin largely ignored his bad manners. "What's that in your front yard?"

"Hmm?" Canada glanced up. "Oh, that. Nathan built that." He replied. America blinked.

"When?" He asked. Canada shrugged.

"Last night, I guess. He stayed up all night, too, eh." The Canadian calmly ate his pancakes. America dropped his fork.

"….it's eight feet tall." He finally muttered. His twin ignored America's shock

"Ten, actually." Canada replied. America blinked.

"And…..yellow." He added. Canada shrugged.

"That's food coloring." He swallowed. "Must have taken him all night, eh?" America made a face.

"Yeah….I guess…." He poked his pancakes with his fork. "Why'd he build that thing?" He asked.

"Well…..Russia's coming today." Canada replied. America didn't. "….for New Year's." Still nothing. "…with Svetlana." Click.

"Oh." America scraped at his plate, shephearding syrup up onto his last pancake with his fork. "Right. You invited the Russians to the party."

"I invited everyone to the party." Canada frowned. "Besides, I thought you liked Svetlana?" America snorted.

"Svetlana, yes, kinda. Her daddy? NO." He growled. Canada sighed.

"Baby." He muttered. America narrowed his eyes.

"Commie-lover." He shot back. Canada paused and glanced up.

"Burger-breath."

"Syrup-slurper."

"Sidekick." A shocked gasp.

"T-take that back!"

* * *

It was early evening before people started to arrive for the New Year's party. The first to arrive was England, with his daughter Laura in tow. America raced to answer the door first, if only to take advantage of the Briton clueless to the mistletoe in the doorway. Laura giggled and did nothing to help her father, slipping past the couple and into the house.

"Hey Nattie," She greeted. The American waved. "So, how long did it take ye t' make that?" She asked.

"All last night, and most of this morning." Nathan replied with a grin. "I really hope she likes it…it froze at some point, too, so it should be around long enough for her to see." Laura chuckled.

"Bet you froze yer mitts off, didn't ye?" She smirked. Nathan held up his gloved hands guiltily. "I'm sure she'll love it, Nattie. I don't see how she couldn't."

"Thanks, Laura." The American grinned brightly. There was a loud smack from the doorway, and Nathan covered his ears as red-faced England unleashed a tidal wave of curses and tongue-lashing upon America, who just smiled and laughed the whole time.

France was next to arrive, with Benoit and Alphonse, who didn't actually get inside the house until twenty minutes later, because Laura remembered the mistletoe. Then came Germany, Italy, and Markus, who'd brought one of his dogs along with him - a golden retriever named 'Liberty', who only had three legs. The Americans immediately fell in love with the pooch, and ignored the rest of the guests in favor of playing with her.

Prussia and his 'brood' arrived a few minutes later, grinning and covered in snow. Konrad had instigated a snowball fight at the top of the driveway, and the rest of the family had quickly been dragged into it. Johanna was nowhere to be found, but none of her siblings seemed overly worried about her absence. When asked about it, Konrad would even grin, though he never responded directly.

Turkey and Ilayda arrived with Greece and Japan, and somehow managed to make it through the doors without throwing a punch. As more and more guests arrived, the background noise in the Canadian's house started to grow, until Wyatt forced everyone to shush so he could do his sound check. He accomplished this feat with a microphone and an airborne. Canada was laughing too hard to be mad.

The last too arrive were Russia and the Baltics. Poland paraded inside with Danukas, and Lithuania sandwiched between them. They joined Estonia and Latvia with Sweden, Finland, Sealand and Lucas, who had arrived a half hour prior. Nathan eyed the door hopefully as Belarus entered, and then Ukraine. A few moments passed, but there was no sign of Russia or Svetlana. Nathan frowned.

"Um….Ukraine-?" He started to ask, but the 'anatomically gifted' country squealed.

"Go outside, sweetie!" Nathan blinked, but Ukraine shoved him out the door and into the snow.

"Nathan, мой щенок!" The young American was suddenly swept of his feet and spun around, turning the falling snow into a warp-speed window view from the Enterprise. "Это так прекрасно!" (It is so lovely!) Svetlana laughed as she spun him around. "You made this for me, da?"

"Da." Nathan couldn't keep the grin off his face as his feet finally touched the ground again. "You like it?" He asked hopefully. Svetlana smiled widely.

"Нет, я не люблю его ..." (No, I don't like it…) She giggled. "Я люблю его!" (I love it!) She leaned in and kissed her American before he could respond. Russia stood looking up at the colorful, ten foot snow structure built beneath the skeletal tree. Obviously a work of great devotion and time, it was a bouquet of three sunflowers, complete with a snowy ribbon and card, and painted with a mixture of food coloring and paint. "Отец, не правда ли красиво?" (Father, isn't it beautiful?) Svetlana asked. Russia smiled.

"Da. It is. It's the biggest sunflower I've ever seen, da."

* * *

Yeah, so...Canada's hosting a belated holiday party or something. Christmas party in February. That happens, right? XD


	11. AU: 2

A second test chapter for the "CotN AU", which is rapidly gaining strength, and the eleventh chapter of "Missing Moments". I think I'll leave the tests up here, either way. They ARE true missing moments, anyway.

* * *

They thought he couldn't hear them; that he couldn't understand them if they spoke English. But he was a good listener. He'd been listening to America since they'd met, and also to England and Canada and all those other people when they weren't talking to him. He couldn't speak English, but he could recognize enough words to make sense.

And that's what caused his heart to clench.

They were going to send him back to the orphanage. Benoit hugged his Pierre close, trying to fill the empty pit sinking in his chest. No. He couldn't go back there! He'd be forgotten again! Maybe forever this time!

Benoit backed away from the door, swallowing past the lump in his throat. This….this wasn't fair. They'd all been so nice to him. Why were they doing this? Why?

A tiny sob escaped him, and Benoit turned and sprinted onto the patio connected to the study. He didn't want to be heard. He didn't want to be shushed and hugged and…okay, maybe he did, but not by them.

Not when they were planning to get rid of him.

Benoit stood on tip toe to reach the handle on the sliding door, and after a moment of effort, pulled it shut. He ran across the patio, down the short steps onto the lawn, and ran ahead into the hedge maze.

Though relatively short and easy to navigate for an adult or person over five feet tall, anyone under that mark couldn't see over the tops of the trimmed bushes. Benoit ran and ran, deeper and deeper into the maze, until he came across a small courtyard. The little boy sat down on the benches and started to cry, hugging Pierre, who was back to being the boy's only friend in the world.

After a while, Benoit wiped his eyes. His head hurt and his body ached from all the crying, but he felt just a tiny bit better. The little boy looked up, and saw that the sun had already passed the horizon, and thick clouds were gathering in what was left of the light. He whimpered and jumped up, forgetting Pierre in his haste.

Benoit hated storms. They were loud and they were scary and dangerous! He suddenly didn't care if they were giving him away - he wanted to be with America and England and France and Japan so they could make the scary storm go away!

Unfortunately, Benoit couldn't remember how to get out of the maze, and within three minutes, he was horribly lost.

Within two minutes, it began pouring rain.

Within one minute, it began to thunder.

Benoit ran and ran and ran until he found another clearing, this one with a small wooden and wire-mesh gazebo in the secluded center. Soaking wet, shivering, and nearly frightened out of his wits, the little boy raced for the structure and threw himself inside, clamoring to the back and curling into a ball on the worn wooden bench.

Why did everything have to go wrong today? Why couldn't he have enjoyed just one more night of happiness? Of feeling loved? Benoit felt his throat close up again and he started to cry all over. He was cold, frightened, and alone - he didn't even have his Pierre to comfort him anymore. He just wanted to be back in the hotel, warm and dry in the fluffy bed with Pierre…

…maybe England would have told him another story before bed. He couldn't always understand the words, but he liked the way England would act it out. It made the little boy smile, and that seemed to make England smile, too. But then, if Benoit made him smile…why wasn't England fighting to keep him? Benoit wailed softly and buried his face in his arms, resigned to a terrified night of being cold, lost and alone.

He didn't hear the footsteps at first. After a long four hours of hearing weird and frightening storm sounds, he'd given up on identifying them. The little boy sat with his head in his arms, sniffling, and trying to conserve what body heat he could. He didn't hear the approaching footsteps on the dirt - now mud - path, nor coming up the wooden gazebo steps.

"_Petite! Vous y êtes!_" (Little one! There you are!) The voice startled him into jumping, and Benoit whimpered quietly. He was so stiff! Moving anything hurt, now…and he was still soaking wet. Then again, so was France.

The taller Frenchman was carrying a small flashlight, and looked like he'd been out in the storm since it first started. His boots were covered in mud and his once gorgeous hair was clinging stubbornly to his face. Benoit whimpered again, shrinking back against the bench as France crossed the gazebo floor. Oh no. He was in so much trouble, now…

"_Que faites-vous tout le chemin ici_?" (What are you doing all the way out here?) France pulled something from within his coat - a blanket, it seemed - and draped it over the boy's shaking shoulders. "_Pauvre, vous devez avoir si froid._" (Poor thing, you must be so cold.) Benoit sniffed and looked up with wide eyes as he was lifted into a warm hug.

"_Je ... je ne suis pas en difficulté_?" (I…I'm not in trouble?) He sniffled. France shook his head.

"_Non, un peu_." (No, little one.) He sat down on the bench, settling the small boy in his lap and hugging him. "_Nous étions tous tellement inquiets quand nous n'avons pas pu vous trouver. Nous sommes tous allés droit à sa recherche._" (We were all so worried when we could not find you. We all went right out to search.) He brushed a lock of wet hair from Benoit's tear-reddened face. "_Pourquoi avez-vous fait tout ce chemin ici, petite_?" (Why did you come all the way out here, little one?) Benoit sniffed.

"_Je ... Je vous ai entendu parler ... tous. y-vous alliez me renvoyer ..."_ (I….I heard you all talking….y-you were going to send me back….) Benoit started to cry for a third time, now overwhelmed with possibly-misplaced guilt. "_Je ne peux pas revenir en arrière! Je vais être encore oublié et je ne tomberai jamais adopté parce que personne ne veut de moi_!" (I can't go back! I'll be forgotten again and I'll never get adopted because nobody wants me!) He wailed, suddenly desperate for someone to listen; someone to comfort him. "_S'il vous plaît ne pas me renvoyer!_" (Please don't send me back!)

"_Non, non, un peu .._." (No, no, little one…) France pulled the boy into a hug and gently patted his back. "_Vous ne serez pas renvoyé, bébé. Je vous promets. Vous souvenez-vous quand vous avez eu prise de sang_?" (You will not be sent back, baby. I promise. Do you remember when you had blood taken?) Benoit sniffed and wiped at his eyes with his damp sleeve.

"_Oui…_" He sniffled. "_L'aiguille me fait défaillir, mais je me souviens ..."_ (The needle made me faint, but I remember…) France smiled gently.

"_Eh bien, le sang l'infirmière a été utilisé pour un essai. Un qui vient de rentrer aujourd'hui_." (Well, the blood the nurse took was used for a test. One that just came back today.) He explained. "_Il nous a tout dit quelque chose de très important sur vous ... et sur moi._" (It told us all something very important about you…and about me.) The Frenchman held Benoit close and fondly patted the boy's damp hair.

"_Vous ne serez jamais revenir à l'orphelinat, Benoit. Vous viendrez avec moi, parce que je suis ton papa_." (You will never go back to the orphanage, Benoit. You will come home with me, because I am your Papa.)

* * *

No break in the page, because I didn't think that fit the flow well. Again, relying heavily on Google Translate for the French. This would be around chapter 5, ideally, where it's officially confirmed (to the nations and the readers) that France is Benoit's father.


	12. Parenthood

Just a (very) short clipping of Alfred, musing about stuff. XD Doesn't fit with "CotN"'s planned ending, or with the sequel. But enjoy it anyway!

* * *

Parents weren't supposed to pick favorites.

Especially when they had multiple offspring. That just wasn't fair. There was no way to justify favoring one particular child out of the whole group over all the others. Those who did were considered 'bad parents', and the non-favored offspring were usually branded as 'troubled' as a result of the neglect.

But the states weren't really his 'kids'. They were just like him, only on a smaller scale. None of them had an actual 'mother', and none had a real 'blood relation' to him. They all appeared - one by one - as he founded each new state, until he eventually had the fifty he did today. From Maine to Georgia to Montana to Oregon, Alfred loved them all, and would never choose a favorite.

Up until a year ago, he'd stuck firmly by this decision.

Nathan was different, though. He wasn't like his state step-siblings. He personified a territory-that-wasn't, he didn't get sick because of the economy, and he didn't always represent his people. He was easily bored with his 'sandbar' of a home, and was married to the personification of the Russian Criminal Underground.

Nathan _had _an actual mother. He _was_ a direct blood relation. He had been born as a result of a meeting between a kindhearted waitress and a returning-from-overseas Korean War!Alfred. His blood was half nation, and half human. He was something that none of them - not even Francis - had thought could exist.

Had you told Alfred any of this one year ago, you'd have been laughed at and waved off.

Then he'd met Nathan that fateful day at McDonald's. Talked with him, made a friend. Hitched a ride back to the conference center, wanted to talk again. Seen him come in to work hurt, and caught him in a lie. He'd followed Nathan to a shady bar, and discovered the world of trouble the boy was in. He'd run into the commie bastard, who confronted the girlfriend, who led them both on a charge to save Nathan.

He'd found him lying in the snow; bruised, bleeding and broken. He'd rushed him back to a hospital, and run that secret, maybe not-so-legal DNA test, and discovered the truth. He'd realized how far down this boy had fallen because he hadn't been there. How unheroic a father he'd been. That's when he broke the promise he'd made so long ago.

It's not that he loved Nathan more than any of his states. He just had a duty. He'd always been there for his states….but he'd never been able to give Nathan that same attention. So he was making up for lost time, and trying to be the best father he could be. It wasn't favoritism.

Just….parenthood.


	13. MOI

Very short...but once I'd decided what Nathan personified (officially), I had to write something...

* * *

Nathan was an easily bored child.

And a military base was a bad place for a bored child to be. Having already been kicked out of the hanger on Palmyra Atoll, there was nothing else for him to do but wander the 10 square mile landmass. With a bored growl, Nathan kicked at the sand, kicking up a cloud of white with his boots.

He wanted to get away from the repetitiveness he'd lived for over 153 years. Go explore another island. Maybe even another country! Oh, that would be so cool! Maybe he would finally explore the country that technically held sovereignty over him: The United States. America! Good ol' USA!

But wait. He'd need to be allowed to travel for that.

Nathan sighed heavily and sat down in the sands, using a stick he'd picked somewhere along his wanderings to poke at the damper sand at his feet. No out-of-territory travel. Not for him. He was barely allowed to travel between his own freaking islands - and only those in the Pacific! And he knew they were his - nobody else agreed, but he just had this feeling, the same feeling that told him he was a dude (if a somewhat fruity one…).

He felt he should at least have that right!

Nathan poked at the sand with his stick, adding the bottom stripe to his rendition of Palmyra Atoll's unofficial flag. It was a little confusing, since he had over 11 total islands, scattered all over the oceans, and several different (but unofficial) flags for several islands….and he still had to officially use the flag of the United States of America. It was kind of unfair…..or maybe it just made up for the fact that his citizens didn't have to pay US federal taxes-

Wait, they weren't represented in US government, either.

Nope. Not fair.

With a frustrated huff, Nathan wound up and threw his stick into the Pacific ocean. He wanted to get _out_ of here! Like, _now_! He felt like screaming, he was so bored! The young man stood up and brushed sand off his pants. There had to be a way to get out….some way he could get off these islands (at least for a little while.) His 'caretaker', General Kolt, wouldn't let him travel for just any reason.

He had to make it a good one….


	14. AU: 3

Another test for the AU of "CotN"...

* * *

America groaned and tried to shrug off the person shaking his shoulder. The shaking paused, but then persisted again. The superpower refused to open his eyes. Nooo…it was too warm and cozy…just five more minutes..

"_Monsieur Alfred ... Je pense que vous avez besoin de se réveiller_ ..." (Mister Alfred…I think you need to wake up…) Eh? Who was that? Wait….OH. He blinked sleepily and opened his eyes. Sure enough, Benoit was standing at the side of the bed, timidly shaking his shoulder. The alarm clock was beeping away, the time reading "7:26am". He yawned. 726am…oh crap!

"I'm late!" America leapt up in a frenzy, tossing the blankets off the bed and scrambling over to his suitcase, digging wildly for his 'professional' clothes. Benoit just stared, wide eyed, from beside the bed, clutching his toy duck. He watched the adult dress almost in a panic, hopping around with one shoe, fighting to get the other sock on, getting his head stuck in his jacket….

Finally dressed, America was just about to rush out the hotel room door when he stopped himself. Benoit! He couldn't leave the poor boy behind! Immediately struck by a solution, America grinned and rushed back to his suitcase. He dug down to the bottom and pulled out his favorite shirt. It was too small for him…right now…but he always brought it along anyway. It was like a self-confidence boost you could wear - especially with the Captain America shield on the front!

"_Tiens, mets-le sur_." (Here, put this on.) Smiling, he handed the shirt to Benoit. Wide eyed, the boy obeyed wordlessly. "_Nous pouvons appeler un petit déjeuner sur le chemin_." (We can grab breakfast on the way.) America added. Then he paused as Benoit pulled his shirt over his head to change. He must have been exhausted last night to not notice how obvious the boy's ribs were. No wonder he was so small! He looked as if he hadn't eaten all month! "._.. et peut-être le déjeuner, trop_." (…and maybe lunch, too.) He added quietly.

"_M-monsieur Alfred_….?" Benoit quickly pulled the shirt down over his protruding ribs. "_Où allons-nous_?" (Where are we going?) He asked timidly. America quickly plastered the smile back on his face.

"_Pour ce grand rendez-vous de tous mes amis (certains d'entre eux)_." (To this big meeting of all my friends (some of them).) He replied brightly. "_Nous avons à parler de choses importantes, mais par la suite, vous la chance de rencontrer mon ami Francis, d'accord?_" (We have to talk about important stuff, but afterwards, you get to meet my friend Francis, okay?) He ruffled the child's hair fondly. Benoit gave a shy, tiny smile.

"_Il est celui qui peut m'aider ... pas vrai_?" (He is the one who can help me…right?) He remembered timidly. America laughed.

"_Droit_!" (Right!) He superpower snatched the room key from the table, grabbed his bag, and swung Benoit up in one arm. The little boy squeaked and wrapped his arms around America's neck for stability, almost smacking him with Pierre. "_Prêt à aller rencontrer mes amis, petit_?" (Ready to go meet my friends, kid?) He smiled.

"_Oui, monsieur _..." (Yes, sir…) The little boy nodded. America grinned and headed out of the room.

"To the World Meeting!"

* * *

This is turning into it's own story...


	15. AU: 4

Yeah...this is turning into its own story.

* * *

Canada had gotten used to a lot of things since becoming a nation. He'd gotten used to being sat on (almost), he'd gotten used to being seen through (not really), and he'd even gotten used to his twin's odd schemes. This, however, was something entirely new.

The Canadian blinked, wondering if pinching himself would turn this into a dream. His brother, America, had just waltzed into the building, carrying his briefcase, his tie undone…and holding the hand of a small child. For once, it didn't take the American long to seek out his near-invisible twin, and he waved cheerily. "HEY MATTIE!" He shouted across the half-empty meeting room. He was largely ignored by everyone else. They, too, were used to America's yelling. "COME 'ERE! I NEED YOUR HELP!" Canada sighed heavily, but picked up Kumajirou and walked across the room.

"Um….Al? Can I ask why you have a guest, eh…?" He asked when he got close enough for his quiet voice to be heard. America just grinned and pulled the little boy out from behind his legs, where he'd been trying to hide.

"Mattie, this is Benoit. Benoit, _c'est Matthew, mon frère. Mon jumeau, en fait._" (…this is Matthew, my brother. My twin, actually.) He introduced. Matthew blinked.

"Wow, Al. I haven't heard you speak French in a while…..you're accent is horrible, eh." He added softly. America made a face.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He muttered. Benoit tilted his head in confusion, glancing between Canada and America and back again.

"_Il est votre jumeau? Mais ... vous avez tous deux l'air si différents_." (He is your twin? But…you both look so different.) He commented, sounding unsure. Canada couldn't help but smile at this. For once, someone didn't immediately thing he was an America-clone!

"_Je sais…amiss nous sommes_." (I know…but we are.) Canada smiled softly at Benoit. His won accent was still very much French Canadian - which made the little boy giggle - but it was still understandable. Canada glanced at his brother. "I'd ask you to explain…but I get the feeling that would be futile, eh."

"Hey, I'll explain!" America protested indignantly. "….after the meeting. By the way, can you watch Benoit during it? I have that big presentation on Global Warming I have to give and I haven't finished my speech yet - besides, you don't have anything you have to do today. You didn't even have to come." Canada made a face.

"You never take your own notes, and always end up cheating off of mine. I have to come because you don't pay attention." America didn't seem to notice the jab in this, and if he did, he ignored it.

"Thanks Mattie!" He knelt down to Benoit's level. "_Restez avec Matthew pendant que nous sommes ici, ok? Il est vraiment sympa._" (Stay with Matthew while we're here, okay? He's really nice.) Benoit nodded obediently. America grinned, then stood up and rushed to his seat as Germany began calling for order. Matthew smiled softly and offered his hand to the little boy. After just a moment's hesitation, Benoit accepted it and followed Canada back to his seat.

The meeting went rather well from that point on. No truly serious conflicts broke out, and for once, the world was acting rather civil. Then Canada caught Benoit sneaking glances up at Kumajirou, and he smiled softly. _"Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose, Benoit_?" (Do you need something, Benoit?) He asked. The boy shifted nervously.

"_Puis ... puis-je porter votre animal de compagnie, Monsieur Matthieu?_" (Can….can I pet your bear, Mister Matthew?) He asked shyly. Canada smiled.

"_Bien sûr_." (Of course.) He lowered Kumajirou to the floor, and Benoit shyly reached out to pat the bear's white ears. The bear sniffed the timid child, and then licked his nose. Benoit burst out giggling. This new sound attracted the attention of a certain brunette by disturbing his daydream of pasta. Feliciano blinked and looked down the table. He saw America - no wait, that was Canada - smiling at something beneath the table, so he leaned out around Poland to see.

"Vee~ Canada! He's so cute! Is he your's?" The meeting ground to a halt, and all eyes were suddenly on the nation and child at the end of the table. Wide-eyed, Benoit dove behind Canada's chair to hide.

"N-no, he's not mine, eh!" Canada scrambled. "He's-"

"Adorable!" Hungary interrupted. "Oh my gosh! Where did he come from?" Canada's eyes widened as half the room suddenly stood up and surged toward them, some cooing, others yelling questions. Benoit started to whimper and clutched Pierre tightly, trying to hide behind Kumajirou. Within moments, however, he'd been swept off his feet by the crowd.

"Hey!" America shouted from the back of the group. "Hey, leave him alone! You're scaring him!" His voice, however, seemed to go unheard. Poor Benoit could only cling to Pierre, wide-eyed, as he was passed (or snatched) from strange person to strange person. He couldn't understand anything they were saying, and they were all trying to talk at once. Suddenly a large pair of hands grabbed him, and he found himself dangling high above the ground. Shocked, he dropped Pierre.

"He looks like a mini-France." Russia noted as he looked at the boy. Benoit started to shake, but he was too scared to speak. Why were these people yelling? Why wouldn't they put him down? This was scary! A shorter woman snatched him away from the tall scary man and squished him in a hug.

"Brother, he is too cute to be a mini-France." She argued. Someone shouted 'hey!' in the background, but no-one paid it any mind. Benoit started to squirm. He wanted to be put down - now! Another pair of hands snatched him away, but this time, he was cradled against a familiar jacket.

"Everybody KNOCK IT OFF!" America growled. Silence fell. "You're scaring him…." Benoit whimpered, burying his face in Americas jacket. The superpower pried him off and handed the boy to Canada. "Take him outside, kay?" His twin nodded and walked out into the hallway, with Kumajirou trailing behind him, the toy duck in his mouth. The room was very quiet until the doors had closed, and then Romano spoke up.

"What the HELL was that?"

* * *

Screw the rules. I'm writing my own AU!


	16. AU: Final

This is the last one for "Missing Moments" - the AU is becoming its own story. No more new chapters after this will be posted (involving the AU plot).

* * *

"That," America growled back. "Was a poor little kid that you all just scared the crap out of." Romano snarled and would've spat back a stream of curses had Spain not covered his mouth.

"Lovi, there are still little ears nearby!" He warned. The Italian growled.

"America, why did you bring a child to the meeting?" England asked, brows furrowed in a frown. "What were you doing with a child in the first place?" America paused, for so long that England almost thought the American had forgotten the question.

"I'll explain….outside…" America replied. "But only to France, Iggy and Japan." He added quickly. The short Asian nation started.

"What? Why me?" He asked. America shrugged.

"You're good with cute things." He grabbed the three, quickly dragged them outside, and then barricaded the rest of the world inside the room by ripping off the post of a wall-mounted lamp and twisting it through the handles. "There!" He grinned. "That should do it!"

"All you did was ensure that 2/3 of the world will want to kill you." England growled. America shrugged it off.

"Is that really new?" He walked down the hall a few ways, to where Canada was sitting on a padded bench beside Benoit. He sat down on the boy's other side and gave him a soft smile. "Hey… _se sentir mieux_?" (…feeling better?) He asked. Benoit wiped his eyes, clinging to Pierre with one hand as he nodded. America smiled. "Good…" He waved England and France over.

"Your accent really is horrible…" France muttered. America shot him a glare.

"Not now….Arthur, Francis, this is Benoit. I found him on the side of the road last night, on the way to my hotel." He explained quietly. "I asked around at the hotel last night; no-one knows of any orphanages around here or any town nearby that he might have come from, since he says the one he was at closed down. He was left behind."

"The poor lad…" England frowned, his expression softening. He glanced at Benoit, and found the boy staring back blankly. He really couldn't understand a word of English. "If he was traveling on his own, he couldn't have gotten very far…"

"And the nearest towns are Quimper, Vannes, and Rennes." France added. "_Amerique_, did he say if he came from Lorient?"

"Nope." The American shook his head. "Said he couldn't recognize the area - that's why he was lost." The American lowered his voice a little, though, since Benoit couldn't understand him to begin with, it made no difference. "I think he's been on his own for a long time, too. I caught a glimpse of his ribs last night - kid looks like a skeleton under that shirt." Blue and green eyes widened. "He wolfed down breakfast this morning, too."

"Bloody hell, the boy must be starving." England reasoned. He looked at the boy again, and Benoit whined and shied back against Canada.

"This is unacceptable!" France agreed. "The poor child! We shall take him to a doctor today." He decided. "Screw the meeting. It is in chaos anyway."

"For once, we're in agreement." England snorted. Japan quietly cleared his throat, and England jumped. He'd entirely forgotten the Asian was there.

"Perhaps one or two of us should take the child to a doctor, and the rest should try to discover more about him?" Japan suggested. "If he is an orphan, would the cities not have some sort of record on him?" France smiled.

"Brilliant, Japan! Angelterre, Amerique and I will begin searching the records." He planned. England shifted.

"How many cities worth?" He asked. France paused in thought.

"Three, perhaps four." He guessed. England sighed.

"That is going to take a while…." He predicted. America stood up.

"Well then, we'd better get started." He declared. "Canada, Japan, you two take Benoit to the nearest hospital. Make sure he's not sick or in serious trouble. Maybe get his blood drawn or something. Call us when you hear anything new." Both nodded, and Canada offered Benoit his hand.

"_Voulez-vous venir avec moi et Kiku_?" (Will you come with me and Kiku?) He asked. Benoit hesitated, looking up at Japan warily. The brown-eyed Asian nation smiled softly and gave the boy a small wave. Benoit held Pierre close.

"_Bien_…" (Okay…) He agreed, taking Canada's hand. The northern nation smiled, and the group split up to accomplish their separate tasks. They all seemed to forget about the 40+ nations still 'locked' inside the conference room...


	17. Karaoke

If there was one thing Japan was known for, it was karaoke bars.

And sushi.

And anime.

And…well….hentai.

But Canada preferred to focus on the karaoke part.

It was the end of another semi-successful world meeting, and Japan had invited his guests out to a local karaoke bar to experience some of his modern culture before they retired to their hotel. Most of them had agreed, and Canada had called back to the room to ask Wyatt if he'd like to join them.

His son had tagged along to this meeting for no reason other than the sushi. Wyatt had practiced his Japanese for a month, and carried around a little pocket dictionary just to be able to order it properly. He almost turned down his father's invitation until Canada mentioned the complimentary sushi because Japan knew the owner. After that, Wyatt couldn't get there fast enough.

After an hour or so of letting the locals take the stage and just watching, Wyatt got up and walked over to to the list of available songs, flipping through it curiously. A few pages in, he began to grin, and came back to the table. Canada gave him a suspicious look, but Wyatt continued to grin and tugged on his father's sleeve.

"Hey dad, I found a good one, there! Let's go do it!" He pleaded. Ignoring the drunken "that's what he said!" thrown their way by his brother, Canada made a face.

"Do what?" He asked. Wyatt leaned in to whisper, and a devious smirk he didn't usually wear in public crept onto Canada's face.

"That's perfect, eh. Let's get our names up on the board for it."

* * *

Japan sighed quietly as a plastered Italy finally passed out on the table. When he'd invited the other nations to this karaoke bar, he'd expected a little more karaoke, and a little less drinking. Now, as the host nation, he would have to make sure they all returned to their correct hotel rooms safely. They could deal with their own hangovers in the morning, though. It wasn't his fault they were all having love-affairs with alcohol.

The small nation glanced up at the stage in time to see a familiar pair of figures climbing the steps. Canada had become a lot more recognizable since Wyatt had come along - mainly because Wyatt could be a scary bastard when he wanted to, and had taken it upon himself to teach his father. Then Canada had just become a nicer Russia. Especially when America did something stupid involving his twin.

Japan shuddered. He still got goosebumps upon remembering the last world meeting held in Canada. America had reportedly cried about it for a week, to Nathan's chagrin and his twin's guilt. He watched as father and son took a moment to disentangle the microphones from the stands. What song were they going to perform?

Then the music started up, Japan's eyes widened, and he could do nothing but stare for the first verse and chorus.

The same sort of shock rolled through the rest of the drunk and semi-sober nations as Wyatt and Canada moved onto the second verse, Canada giving in to the spotlight a little and joining Wyatt in a spontaneous bounce-step. Across the room, Russia was grinning, thoroughly enjoying both the subject matter and the varied reactions of his fellow (drunk) nations.

The song ended after a minute or two, and the two Canadians stepped down, giggling. The nations headed back to their hotel rooms after that, to sleep off their hangovers and try to drown that karaoke memory in aspirin and water.

Following this episode, Canada and Wyatt were never allowed to sing anything by The Scissor Sisters ever again.


	18. Rather Tangential, Ain't It?

"Glitter in the Air" by PINK

Everyone - no specific request

* * *

They had been many things over the course of their long lifetimes….soldiers, warriors, heros, villains, kings and peasants…but never 'parents'.

At least, not in the sense of their own. The few of them who had experienced the 'pleasure' of caring for a little one had experienced a mere shell of the truth. The 'children' they had cared for had grown to be nations like themselves. Raising them had been more akin to coaching them…to listen to their boss, control their people, ect…

Now, though, they were experiencing something brand new.

Germany glanced down, wearing a softer version of his rare smile. Italy had long since passed out across the taller blond's lap, but it was Markus who had only recently dropped off, slumped against his father's shoulder. Nearby, Blackie, Aster and Blitz had formed a sleepy pile with Soviet, the German Shepherd Markus had brought from Berlin. It made for a very strange family photo…..but Germany found that he couldn't change a thing.

Instead, he turned to look up across the darkened landscape of Central Park. America had pulled strings to get them all inside after the gates closed, and to shut off the lights of the building immediately surrounding the park. This created a stunning view of the stars above. Germany's smile widened and he carefully sat back, ending up with both Markus and Italy lying across his middle. The moon looked so close….almost enough to reach out and lasso it.

Germany turned his head to look down at Markus. Unlike a good portion of his fellow 'Nationlings', Markus more resembled his father than his mother. Same blue eyes…same blond hair…though the younger didn't slick it back, instead, letting the short locks hang loose. The father smiled gently and ruffled his son's hair, and Markus smiled softly in his sleep. Germany was glad for the lack of light….it meant that he could keep this moment all to himself.

A few meters away in the darkness sat another group. One that, just thirty years ago, would have never come within a mile of each other without attempting murder. Granted, both Cold War participants were still sitting on opposite sides of their respective children - as far from each other as they could get. Between them, their children were stretched out on the grass, cuddled up close and sharing their respective jackets as pillows.

America risked a glance over just in time to catch the end of a shared kiss. In the darkness, it was a little hard for the two to see each other - even harder for Nathan, whose glasses had disappeared somewhere.

America felt just a little bit jealous, watching so tender of a moment. He wondered suddenly how it would feel….to be able to trust someone so much - even when at your most vulnerable - and still believe that they would never hurt you...

Blue eyes glanced up at the towering figure sitting just beyond the couple. Amethyst met blue, and then, the tiniest flicker of a smile passed through the darkness. Russia looked back out upon the park, leaving his daughter and son-in-law to their own devices. He could tell what America was thinking…..he was dreaming of the same thing, truth be told.

But honestly…he would be afraid to trust someone that much….which was part of the reason he had never seriously objected to his daughter's choice of partners…..despite their (idiotic) lineage….

If Svetlana were braver than her father, than who was he to punish her for it, after all?

A short ways down the hill, another pair lay on the grass. One had his head pillowed against the fluffy side of a snoozing polar bear, while the other just cradled his head with his hands. The silence between the two was comfortable; both were content to watch the stars, with two pairs of violet eyes seeking out the minute flickers of light that determined star from planet.

Neither of them really needed to fill the silence. Out of all of them, they had been the first to get along so quickly, with no real grudges held between father and son, and no real issues that needed resolving. Theirs was the smoothest relationship out of all of them, and both were content to just let things be.

Back up the hill, and under the shade of a large tree, five more figures sat. Again, the parents sat on either side of their children, unable to totally dissolve their usual separation even now. France sat back against the tree, leaning Benoit against his shoulder as his youngest son slept. Beside him, his eldest son, Alphonse, was sitting up and leaning sideways against his wife, Laura.

The Englishwoman was wearing a sloppy smile, but since neither were completely awake, it fit. England sat to the side of his daughter, his content smile hidden in the shadows that surrounded them. No words passed between them, either. The moment seemed to precious to break with sound, anyhow.

All around the park, families were gathered together. They were as few as two and as many as five (six, if you count Gilbird), but they were all families no matter the number. To be perfectly honest, if you asked, none of them would be able to remember the exact reason they had all gathered there at the park to begin with - even America would admit he had no clue, and it had been he who'd sneaked them all inside. That didn't seem to matter anymore, though….they all seemed happy just to sit and watch the stars.

Speaking of stars, those above spontaneously began to put on a show. The park lit up with gasps of awe and laughter. A meteor shower. That had been the excuse to gather. Now, rather than being the main event, it was just another sparkling highlight in one of the longest nights of peace the world had had in centuries. Light after light streaked across the sky, all the varying colors that the human eye could see. The sky was alight with glitter that night….and the whole world watched in awe.

* * *

Request two of my DA "CotN" song meme. This...turned out to be quite rambling/tangential, and just may get rewritten someday.


	19. AU Revival

I've been messing with the idea of rewriting "CotN" as an AU of itself...and Benoit has a few different intros. Here's one.

* * *

Thunder rumbled across the darkened sky, seeming to shake the very pavement of the city below. The sound reverberated through every brick, every wall, every building, like some hungry beast growling for food. A tiny form huddled beneath the slim overhang of a cafe, closed for the night. Clutched in thin, shaking arms was a worn out plush toy, stitched together at almost every seam possible. Ragged, wet clothes clung to a tiny, almost skeletal frame, and every now and then, those small, shaking shoulders let out a quiet sob.

The rumbling sky frightened him more than any beast, because it was a sound he didn't have the luxury of escaping. These cold, empty streets had been his home for several years, now. He had no warm, dry place to hide, and no-one to take him in out of this nightmare. His only friend, his 'Pierre', he pulled close to his chest. Even though the damp fabric rubbed roughly against his skin, it was the only comfort he had left. Thunder rumbled through the city once more, and the boy let out a tiny wail, his tears lost in the rainwater that still dripped from his hair.

"Mon Dieu…" A voice whispered. The boy's head whipped up, blue eyes wide as saucers. As the adult knelt down with an umbrella, the boy tried to squirm away. Unable to get anywhere against the brick wall, he started to cry. "Non, non, mon petit, ne pleure pas." (No, no, little one, do not cry.) France soothed, reaching out to brush some damp hair away from the child's face. "Je ne vais pas vous faire de mal." (I am not going to harm you.) The little boy sniffed and hugged his wet toy closer. Blue eyes, red from crying, locked onto the adult, brimming with a confusing mixture of fear and relief. "Pauvre enfant ..." (Poor child…) Francis whispered. "Où est votre famille?" (Where is your family?) He frowned as the little boy began to cry again.

"Je n'ai pas une famille ..." (I don't have a family…) He wailed. Francis' eyes widened.

"Ce n'est pas possible! N'avez-vous pas quelque part où aller?" (That is not possible! Don't you have anywhere to go?) He asked. He regretted the question almost immediately as the child began to cry again. Leaning his umbrella against one shoulder, France pulled the child into his arms and gently rocked him. The child buried his face in the nation's shoulder almost immediately, shaking and sobbing.

France simply held him, still kneeling beneath the dark shelter of the umbrella. This boy was one of his people, after all; he could feel all the fear and sadness - much too much for one child to carry. How could people just leave this poor boy on the streets? Surely there was someone out there looking for him…there had to be. France gently patted the child's back as the sobbing gradually slowed.

"... tu te sens mieux, mon fils?" (…do you feel better, son?) He asked quietly. The boy sniffed.

"... oui, monsieur ..." (…yes, sir…) He whispered, not moving his head from the nation's shoulder. He wasn't sure why, but he felt safe with this man. The fear he usually felt around adults - around anyone, really - was gone. France smiled softly as he felt the boy relax a little in his arms, nuzzling tiredly into the warm fabric of his jacket.

"Quel est votre nom, votre enfant?" (What is your name, child?) He asked, patting the boy's damp blond hair. The boy yawned tiredly, obviously worn out from his earlier crying.

"Benoit…" He muttered, struggling to keep his eyes open. France wrapped an arm around the boy and shifted him a little on his lap.

"Je vais vous apporter un endroit sûr pour la nuit, bien Benoit?" (I'm going to bring you somewhere safe for the night, alright Benoit?) He decided, standing up and leaning the boy against his shoulder, whilst holding the umbrella with the other. Benoit merely yawned in response, and drifted off to sleep, still clinging to his damp toy. France smiled softly and continued walking back to his hotel.

While he would have loved to host his home-turf world meeting in Paris, the Paris authorities would not have agreed, after the last series of events. So, this time, the meeting in France was hosted in the smaller city if Rennes. Most of the nations were staying in the hotel directly across from the conference center the meetings themselves were taking place at - including France himself. That day's meeting had been a long and chaotic one, and most of the world was still out on the town, drinking, dancing, or otherwise unwinding.

But there was one nation France knew would still be in his room.

Finland gave him a very odd look when he opened the door to see France standing in the hallway with a soaked child in his arms. The nation of love smiled - somewhat sheepishly - at the shorter blond.

"So sorry to disturb you so late, mon cher, but I was wondering if, perhaps, Peter wouldn't mind donating some dry clothes?" He asked. Finland blinked.

"Um…I'm sure he wouldn't' mind…but…where did that child come from?" He asked. France's smile slipped just a tad.

"I was on my way back here when I found him. The poor boy was all alone on the street, and he claims to have no family…" The nation's voice lowered somewhat. "No child should have to feel as lonely as this one does….I could not just leave him." Finland nodded understandingly and disappeared for a moment before returning with a spare set of clothes from Sealand's suitcase.

"Here…he always overpacks, anyway. I'm sure he won't miss these." France smiled.

"Merci, Finland. Bon nuit~" He walked back down to his own room and keyed in. He spread a towel on the bed and laid down the still sleeping Benoit. He gently pulled the wet toy from the boy's arms and set it aside, then pulled off the boy's shirt. If Benoit stayed in these wet clothes, he would surely catch cold. Once Benoit was into some dry clothes, France pulled back the covers on the bed and settled the boy in. That done, France sat on the edge of the bed and gently patted Benoit's slowly-drying hair.

There was something…different…about his child. He felt a connection to all of his people, true, but this time, if felt stronger. As though Benoit was someone he should have known, but just couldn't remember. He frowned as he focused a little more on the child. Bags under his eyes…scarred hands…bony frame….what had this poor child been through? France stood up slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping Benoit, and turned to pick up the wet clothes and toy. There was a laundry room just down the hall - surely these wouldn't take that long to dry.

When France returned half an hour later, Benoit was awake and sitting up in bed, clutching the covers close, and on the verge of tears. He jumped in shock when the door clicked open, and whimpered as France walked in. The older blond made a gentle shushing sound and set the clothes down at the foot of the bed, moving to sit on the edge and stroke Benoit's hair. "Il est correct, Benoit. Tu es en sécurité ici." (It is alright, Benoit. You're safe here.) The Frenchman smiled and held up the toy. "Est-ce le vôtre?" (Is this yours?)

"Pierre!" Benoit reached out his arms for the toy, and France handed it over. The boy buried his face in the feather-patterned fabric and let out a giggle. "Il fait chaud!" (He's warm!) France smiled.

"Il fallait que je lui séché, tout comme vous." (I had to get him dried off, same as you.) He smiled. "Nous ne voudrions pas lui prendre froid, serions-nous?" (We wouldn't want him to catch cold, would we?) Benoit snuggled Pierre close for several minutes. Then, he looked up at France with wide, shy eyes.

"... qui êtes-vous…?" (…who are you…?) He asked timidly. "Et ... pourquoi avez-vous m'aider?"(And….why did you help me?) France's smile softened and he patted Benoit's hair.

"Je ne pouvais pas vous laisser là, mon petit." (I could not just leave you there, little one.) He replied. Benoit looked confused.

"Mais ... personne n'a jamais m'aide ..." (But…no-one ever helps me…) He whispered. France frowned.

"Ne dites pas cela, mon fils. Je vous ai aidé, n'ai-je pas?" (Do not say that, son. I helped you, didn't I?) He leaned in and gave the boy a soft kiss on his forehead. "Dors, mon enfant. Les choses seront tous mieux le matin ..." (Sleep, child. Things will all be better in the morning…) France started to stand, but a tiny hand suddenly grabbed his sleeve.

"Attendez! S'il vous plaît ne me quitte pas!" (Wait! Please don't leave me!) France stopped, struck by the abrupt look of fear in those wide blue eyes. "Tu es gentil ... Je ne veux pas vous quitter comme les autres." (You're nice…I don't want you to leave like the others.) The boy whimpered. "S'il vous plaît ne me quitte pas…" France knelt down beside the bed and grasped Benoit's smaller hand.

"Je ne vous laisserai pas, mon petit." (I will not leave you, little one.) He smiled softly. "Je vous promets, je serai toujours là quand vous vous réveillez, d'accord?" (I promise, I will still be here when you wake, alright?) Benoit nodded quietly, and France lay him back on the pillow. "Faites de beaux rêves, petite." (Sweet dreams, little one.) He smiled before turning off the lights.

France didn't go to bed himself until Benoit was fast asleep. Taking the extra blanket from the closet, he settled on the other side of the bed next to Benoit, on top of the covers. He didn't go to sleep right away, letting his thoughts on the past few hours catch up to him. He still couldn't figure out that connection he felt with the boy. It…was almost like the connection he felt with Canada or England - the connection of a fellow nation. But…this child was human….wasn't he? Glancing at the clock and realizing it was well into the next morning, France decided to leave that matter for a later date, and close his eyes.

He managed a good four hours sleep before he was roused rather suddenly.

* * *

This was originally much shorter, and again, Google Translate was used for the languages.


	20. Encounters of a Forgotten Kind

_Lately, there have been plot bunnies invading my brain - many of whom have to deal with "Territorial"...just not in the correct time period. Here's one of a possible few that flash backwards in time...Keep in mind, though, that this is a sort of "What If" concept._

* * *

He'd always suspected he'd been different. But it hadn't been proven fact until a hand grenade had torn a gaping hole through his chest.

He'd woken up all alone in the field where the battle had been fought, half-drapped over the edge of a crater. His shirt and uniform had been soaked in blood, but he hadn't felt any pain. He hadn't even realized something was wrong until he sat up and felt unusually drafty in a place where air wasn't supposed to flow.

Upon verifying that, yes, there was a fist-sized hole in his chest, yes, he could see his own muscles moving, and yes, he could touch his own ribs, he'd passed out again. This time, when he woke up, the sun was setting. The hole was still there, but the bleeding had stopped, and he still couldn't feel any pain. Still numb from the shock, he'd stood up, picked up the closest useable rifle, and started walking.

There was no doubt that his unit had left him behind. They had been in a mad charge to gain as much ground as possible as quickly as possible, and hadn't even stopped to bury the dead. Which was probably a good thing - he would have seriously freaked out if he'd woken up six feet under. As it were, he wasn't even sure where he was walking to - he couldn't go back to his unit. How was he supposed to explain to his commander that he was still alive after taking a grenade to the chest?

Nathan stopped walking when the rustle of grass suddenly changed to the crunch of the harder packed gravel of a road. He looked right, and the road was clear. He looked left….and spotted a trail of dust approaching. A single car. Nathan stood on the side of the road, staring blankly at the approaching vehicle, with the rifle dangling by its fraying strap from his fingers. As it drew closer, he could see that there were three men riding inside - one French, one English, and one American. They had to be leaders of some kind.

Nathan made eye contact with the American in the driver's seat, but he didn't register any sort of connection until several moments after the car had stopped, and a hand was being waved in front of his face. Nathan blinked slowly and struggled to refocus his eyes. The taller American frowned and said something, but the sounds didn't make any sense. When Nathan's only response was a blank stare, the man tried again.

"…-oldier…..-an you….-ear me…?" He heard enough to put together a sentence this time, despite how the words echoed and stretched in his mind, but his brain wasn't working fast enough to calibrate a sober-sounding response. Instead, after several moments of being stared at by three confused and concerned commanders (he assumed), Nathan managed one phrase.

"….there's a hole in my chest…." He watched three expressions change simultaneously from confusion, to disbelief, and then to utter shock (mixed with a little horror) as the American questioning him curiously pulled back Nathan's loose jacket, revealing the bloody shirt and gaping hole beneath. The British man shouted something, probably along the lines of "how the holy, bloody hell are you still alive?", but Nathan wasn't paying attention anymore.

Hands grasped his shoulders, and he was suddenly being lifted up into the back seat of the vehicle. His field of vision became nothing but sky, and then the American leaned back into view, wearing an abruptly serious look. He said something else, but Nathan's hearing had started tuning out a few moments earlier, so he missed it. A hand brushed back his hair from his face, before moving down to the dog tags around his neck. Nathan felt that familiar weight lighten just as his senses faded into a blissfully numb blackness…

America frowned as he studied the tags, acutely aware of France and England leaning over his shoulders to see. There was nothing unusual about these tags, apart from the fact that a kid in Army rags was wearing a Marine type tag. There were actually two tags hanging from the chain. One read "Nathan L. Cameron, 26th, Palmyra Atoll". The other read "Gen. Kurt Cameron, 26th, Philadelphia". America frowned.

"This kid ain't no General, so he has to be Nathan." He reasoned, dropping the dog tags and leaning back.

"He shouldn't be alive, with a wound like that…" England muttered. France made a face.

"But look at the wound itself…" He pointed, without actually touching the now unconscious soldier. "It has already begun to heal…." A silence fell and the three nations looked at each other.

"America…" England began slowly. "I thought you didn't allow your states to enlist?" America made a face.

"One: they technically don't exist so they can't get drafted. Two: this kid isn't one of my states." He frowned. England and France traded a look over the superpower's shoulder.

"So….who is he?" France questioned. America rolled his shoulders in a shrug and leaned away from the car.

"Not sure." He admitted as he walked back around to the driver's side and climbed behind the wheel. "But we're taking him back to the base with us. People will get suspicious if we're late, anyways." England settled back as France gingerly settled in beside the unconscious Nathan, as if afraid to touch him.

"And how do you intend to explain our unconscious mystery guest to the Brass, hmm?" He needled. America growled.

"Knock it off! I'm working on something….." He started the car and they resumed their journey. "I'll have something by the time we get there. Hero's honor."

* * *

_The Minor Outlying Islands (which Nathan personifies) were first discovered and claimed by America in the late 1850's-early 1860's. Following this timeline, and assuming that his growth accelerated and halted with the development of the islands, Nathan would have been about sixty years old by the start of WWI - but he'd still have looked like a teenager. Back in wartimes, the islands were home to several military bases. With such a small population, it would have been impossible for Nathan to remain completely hidden and un-drafted for the entirety of America's involvement..._


	21. AU? Or not AU?

So few bunnies...but the ones that bite hang on pretty tight.

* * *

He hadn't meant to get lost.

He had been sitting out on the porch with his Papa, two people he didn't know (though the shorter one was nice), and his red eyed friend. He had been seeing flashes of something bright all night, but when he told his Papa about them, France had only chuckled and patted his head, brushing off the story as his son's imagination.

Benoit hadn't meant to get lost. He'd only wanted to prove to his Papa that he wasn't imagining the lights. But now the lights - the fairies - were gone, and the little boy was surrounded only by towering trees and thick shadows. He couldn't remember which direction he'd come from, and he couldn't see the lights of his Papa's friend's brother's house anymore.

Shivering, the little boy had tried to get home, but he'd only gotten himself even more lost, and for his troubles, now he was scraped up, bleeding, and freezing cold. Benoit started to cry, frozen to the spot in the cold forest. The canopy of the trees keep most of the snow from reaching the forest floor, but there was nothing to stop the rapidly dropping temperature from gnawing at the boy.

"Papa ... Je suis tellement désolé ..." (Papa….I'm so sorry…) Benoit whined out loud to the frozen air. "Je ne voulais pas quitter ... Je voulais juste vous montrer les lumières ..." (I didn't mean to leave. I just wanted to show you the lights…) Tears dribbled down the boy's face, leaving clear tracks through the grime that covered his skin. "J'ai peur, papa ..." (I'm scared, Papa…) Benoit started to sob, wrapping his arms around himself and falling to his knees. "J'ai peur! Je veux rentrer à la maison! Papa! Papa, où es-tu?" (I'm scared! I want to go home! Papa! Papa, where are you?)

The little boy broke down in tears, curling into a ball in the dirt and shivering in the darkness. He wanted his Papa. He wanted his frère. He wanted his Pierre. He wanted….he…..he wanted his Mama. Benoit started to cry harder, burying his face in his arms. "Mère, je veux rentrer chez moi ... " (Mother, I want to go home…) He wailed. "Je veux revenir à papa et mon frère ..." (I want to go back to Papa and brother…) He hiccuped, shaking with fear and cold. "S'il vous plaît, mère ... Je veux rentrer chez moi ..." (Please, mother…I want to go home…)

* * *

Germany had never been one to believe in magic. But out there, surrounded by darkened woods, with the temperature slowly dropping to uncomfortable digits for an adult, and a child still missing, he felt willing to grasp at anything. Maybe that's why he followed that strange light when it appeared at the far edge of his range of vision.

It led him south, towards a small stream that eventually widened into a river deeper into the countryside. Once or twice, he found clues that let him know that Benoit was somewhere in the same direction. First, just a few scraps of cloth (a few with some tiny blood splotches). Then, the necklace France had given to his youngest son mere weeks before. The twine had come loose, and Benoit, in his terror, had not noticed.

Germany stood up, and found the light hovering just beyond his reach again. Clutching the necklace, he began to follow it once more. He was led over a few more trails, all of which led back to the house, but they were too disguised by the night to see if you weren't looking for them. Then, the light suddenly vanished, leaving Germany all alone on top of a shallow dip in the land. The Germanic nation cursed, but then, he heard a tiny sniff.

Just feet away, Benoit was curled into a shaking ball. His clothing was torn and he was bleeding from multiple scratches. His hair was mussed up, and the boy was covered in dirt. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, and his lips and fingernails were an alarming blue hue. The little boy jumped and cried when Germany stepped toward him, breaking down and sobbing apologies and explanations in French.

* * *

Is Germany a little OOC? I think he is...this snippet cuts off rather sharply, but it's growing in story...


	22. Bad Habit

Nathan has some bad habits he needs to kick...and Officer Jenning is more than willing to do the kicking...with steel toed boots.

* * *

There were days when Officer Jenning thought his life was in a rut. The events causing such thoughts were always different, but they were always set off by a strong sense of deja-vu, or some event that happened almost every month. These latter events were how Jenning could tell that day was going to be a bad one. Sometimes he could predict them - the day after a major sports win or loss was guaranteed to be a busy, headache-inducing day, as were the days during which any home-soil world meetings came to a close. In the capitol of the great American nation, could he really expect any less?

The one event Jenning knew heralded a rough day, however, was finding Nathan Cameron handcuffed to the seats out in front of his office.

The teenager offered the D.C. area officer a lopsided grin and an awkward wave, since both his wrists were temporarily attached to the arm of the chair. There was a split in his lip, numerous scrapes across his face, bandages all over his shoulders, arms, and upper torso, and dried blood all down the front of his torn shirt. Officer Jenning sighed heavily, already able to feel those metaphorical sledgehammers going to work on the back of his skull.

"What did you do this time, Cameron?" He growled. "Lose another fight with a pothole?" Nathan shook his head.

"Nah, not this time. I was doing this switchback on 401 - after rush hour. Don't gimme that look! I'm not stupid! - and I kind of….sort of…..didn't see this roadside sign that last night's storm blew down." Nathan grinned sheepishly. "Speaking of which….how much is the fine for that? I didn't knock it over, but my bike kinda screwed up the post…" Jenning had to dig very, very deep into his reserve willpower to keep from facepalming in the middle of the police station.

"I'll get that fine written up." He sighed. "Since it looks like the responding officer already took you to the hospital, we can skip that step today." He straightened up and pulled out his notepad and pen. "Who am I calling today, Mr. Cameron? Ms. Svetlana?" Nathan's shoulders sagged just a little, and Jenning made an educated guess. "She's gone back to Russia for a bit, I'll assume?"

"Yes, sir…" Nathan pouted. Jenning reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"And we all know how hard it is to get ahold of General Kurt….not that he can do you much good from Palmyra." He sighed and put the pad and pen away. "Mr. Jones it is, then?" Nathan sighed.

"Yes, sir…um…can you not tell him about the sign, though?" The teen made a pleading face. "I'd really rather he think I just crashed on my own…I'll find a way to pay off the fine." Jenning resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Even though I am aware of your current financial situation, I will refrain from making a comment on the off-chance that Karma will take pity on me today." He sighed and turned away. "Sit tight, Cameron. You shouldn't be here more than a few hours, if I can get ahold of Jones quick." Nathan looked down at his handcuffed hands and tugged half-heartedly on them.

"…pretty sure I ain't going anywhere, sir."

* * *

Since my plot bunnies are running low and I need the writing practice….what kind of "Missing Moments" would you - the readers - like to see? Leave your request in a review, and I'll get to work!


	23. Painfully Prussian  Request 01

_Inspired and semi-requested by Kitskune Miyake. They asked to see more of the lesser-used Nationlings, and used Danukas and Prussia's brood as examples. I immediately thought of another in-progress Missing Moment...which involved Konrad, a 'job', and a dress. And behold._

* * *

Konrad would never again try to out-drink Danukas. EVER.

For being a scrawny, flamboyant little fashion monkey, the Lithuanian sure could hold his vodka. Four bottles in, and Konrad had been feeling the buzz. Had his wits been about him, he just might have acted upon common sense and backed down. But this is Konrad we're talking about. The resident runner-up Mr. 'Awesome' and 'Screw Your Rules, Imma Prussian!" guy. Now way he could back down from a challenge.

Plus, Danukas had called him a pussy. He had to defend his honor! And as a true Prussian, he'd fought down the room-spinning nausea and pressed onward courageously!

His reward for such 'courage' was a splitting headache, suspiciously pink toenails, no memory of the last twelve hours, and a note taped to his mirror, reminding him of the terms and conditions of the bet that had started the entire episode in the first place. As he sat on the floor of his hotel room, sulking and waiting for the Aleve to do its damn job, Konrad stared at the instruction label on the bottle. He briefly wondered if he could overdose to get out of the bet…..nah. Danukas would just wait for him to spring back to life (stupid semi-immortality) and make him do something worse.

Konrad crawled through the rest of his day, following the note's instructions to (eventually) meet Danukas outside the theater that had been rented out for his upcoming preview show. Rather than a smug Danukas, though, he was met instead by a sympathetic Toris and a not-so-sympathetic Feliks. Before he could even ask, he was handed an opaque hanger bag and a numbered card.

"You're on last. Take your time and look pretty~" Feliks giggled. Toris smiled weakly.

"Sorry, Konrad…but you did agree to these terms. Good luck anyways." Red eyes narrowed as the two nations quickly split and disappeared inside to find their seats.

"….Danni, I swear to God I'm gonna kill you if this involves sequins." He growled to the empty air.

* * *

Sequins, no. Feathers, yes.

Konrad had never seen so many (artfully arranged) feathers in one place, let alone on a single piece of clothing. That HE had to wear. IN PUBLIC. As he read the note pinned to the garment, Konrad felt his face turn red - be it from embarrassment or fury, he wasn't sure. He had some serious interrogating to do the next time they all got to gather for a world meeting. Where the hell had Danukas learned about THAT?

Lying on the table of the dressing room was a slim little black dress made of a stretchy, smooth material. It was single-strapped, with a bunch at the hip that shortened what was a knee-length hem on one leg to damn near panty-revealing on the other. It was accompanied by an open front jacket cover that barely reached around his ribcage, while dangling down as far as his rear, and long, flowing sleeves that, if not pinned back by large white (feather shaped) buttons, would have dangled down over his fingertips.

On the back of the jacket, feather upon tiny little white feather had been painstakingly stitched together to for the shape of an eagle. Not just any eagle. A PRUSSIAN eagle. With a bright red bead for the eye. The eagle's tail was extended, down past the end of the jacket, where it continued on to the base of the cape-like skirt (he wasn't sure what to call it) that fastened around his waist at a slanted angle via a white, feather-crafted belt.

And accompanying all this was a pair of ridiculously high heels with feathered wings at the heels, a make-up kit, and a variety of feather-based accessories.

His face still cherry-red, Konrad lifted the dress gingerly. The thing was obviously custom made (a Prussian eagle? Really?) for him. He didn't bother wondering how Danukas had gotten the measurements (he'd rather not know), and wondered instead if he could really go through with this.

Crossdressing wasn't really a big secret for him. He was an assassin - his job entailed a certain amount of trickery and disguise. It was just plain luck that Konrad just so happened to be able to pull off a pretty convincing (and sexy) woman. But crossdressing for a guy you're gonna kill and crossdressing for a crowd of foreign strangers were two entirely different things. Konrad growled and threw the dress down on the table. No way in HELL was he doing this.

* * *

If he found ANY video, audio, or photographic proof of this ANYWHERE on the Internet, he was going to castrate Danukas with a rusty chopstick.

For the moment, though, Konrad allowed himself a little smirk. So he hadn't lost his touch after all, if the whistles and shouts from the crowd were any indication. Amazing what a razor, some moisturizer, and a few shades colored powder could do. Admittedly, it felt kinda good to be cheered for - even if they all thought he was female.

At the end of the runway, Konrad stopped, turning on the ball of one heeled foot to turn and walk back to the safety of the velvet curtains. Then, he suddenly stopped. While he was up here, he might as well have a little fun of his own. Konrad turned around, reached up, and pulled off the white extensions that hid his short guy hair.

"Guten Abend, meine Damen und Herren. I'm sexy, I'm single, and I'm painfully Prussian!"

He only wished he could've seen Danni's face…..now…who was that designer who'd passed out from a nosebleed behind the VIP rope?


	24. Great Idea?

_Song: "Great Idea" by Josh Kelley_

_Pairing: Nathan/Svetlana_

* * *

Nathan carefully tossed another pebble at the window, holding his breath as it bounced off the glass with a loud 'tap'. Moments later, the window was heaved open, and Svetlana leaned out over the sill, wearing a bright smile. Nathan grinned widely and spread his arms. Understanding the unspoken command, Svetlana ducked back inside, and then climbed backwards out the window, using a small ledge around the division of the first and second stories of the house as a footrest before she let go and dropped to the snow below.

Nathan grabbed her hand and helped her up, pulling a small black box out of his pocket and holding it up with a smile. Svetlana laughed and hugged him tightly, and then grabbed his hand as they rushed away from the house, snow crunching with every frantic stride.

The Russian winter was silent that night, and the frozen breath of a wild young couple hung visible in the air for several seconds. Dressed for only a temporary outing, the American and the native flew through the snow with abandon, cold air scraping their lungs, but finding no purchase against their pounding hearts.

Had either of their parents been aware of their plans, both would have been dragged home and locked in their rooms for God knows how long. One of them would have certainly plotted (and possibly committed) murder, which is why Nathan only showed up when he was sure Russia was out of the country. By morning, though, at least one of their European relatives would realize what had happened - unless General Winter took their side in this matter, their footprints would still be clearly visible by morning.

But they didn't intend to stick around that long.

Not too far from the home, parked by the edge of a local road and hidden behind a stand of trees was a snowmobile. It was the best method of transport on these more rural roads that weren't priority for snowplows, and it was much safer than the motorcycle that Nathan drove. Svetlana took the lead now and climbed on first, starting the vehicle as Nathan jumped on behind her. He fastened his arms around her waist and scooted close, leaning his chin on the taller woman's shoulder with a grin. Grinning in return, Svetlana patted the hands around her middle, meaning to say 'hold tight', before she revved the engine, and the snowmobile took off.

As cold wind and ice crystals whipped against his face, Nathan snuggled close to his human shield. He came from a much warmer, almost tropical island climate, and while he loved Svetlana, he wasn't so fond of Russian winter. Much more adjusted to the harsher atmosphere, Svetlana merely narrowed her eyes against the light flurry General Winter blew down on them. They soon left the house far behind in exchange for wild, snow-covered forests and thrill-inducingly bumpy roads.

Svetlana laughed as they cleared another small jump, and Nathan squeaked and tightened his grip. He made a face at the laughter, but stuck out his tongue, not really that upset. The road eventually smoothed out, and as they approached the lights of a larger town, Svetlana reached down and pried one of Nathan's hands loose, wrapping her bare fingers around his. Two identical bands of gold bumped against each other with the motion, shining in the artificial glow slowly brightening from the horizon. One five hour flight to Paris, and they could finally say they were official…

* * *

_Another piece of the "Moment Request/Song Meme". Very short, but it works. I'm allowed to pick a slot, too. ^_^_


	25. Letters Home 01

This is pretty much all Nathan did during those 100 or so years on the islands...

* * *

_Dear Ma,_

_ Hey. I know it's been a while since my last letter. Life got pretty complicated for a while….so much has happened in the last four years. I'll try to write down as much as I can for now. I have to pick up Liberty from hockey practice at 4:30pm, and I really can't be late. So…um….let's start with who Liberty is. You're not going to believe this, ma. _

_Remember how I used to tell you that I was gonna be like one of those 'heroes' in your romance novels? You remember, the ones who were all cool and suave and single, and swept the lucky lady off her feet in one heroic manner or another? Well….it happened….sort of. I somehow ended up in the role of the 'lady', but still…._

_Getting back on topic….Liberty's my daughter. So that makes you a grandma, ma! I really wish you could've met Liberty, and her momma, Svetlana. And, before I forget to mention, I found dad, too! Its…..almost like we're a family…..but as close as we've come…it's still not complete without you, Ma. I really wish you could've lived to see this…_

_I know that's a stupid thing to say, logically. I heard Francis explaining it to his youngest son, Benoit (I'll try to talk about them later). We're different. We're….not entirely human. But we're not entirely nations, either. Not even dad is completely sure what we are. I know some of the older ones know better than any of us just how different…..they're the ones who outlived their human families and friends…_

…_..please don't be upset, ma, but I'm glad you died when I was so young. It spared me from having to watch you grow older, and older, and eventually, die, while I didn't age at all. That doesn't mean I don't miss you, ma - I do! I'm now one hundred and fifty-seven years old, and I still wake up crying sometimes, because I have a nightmare, and you're not there to chase it away. I know I have dad, now, and Sveta and Liberty….and even a bunch of cousins and new friends…..but that was always your thing._

_You were MY hero, ma, and not even a century can bury the pain of losing you. Kurt started me writing these letters to you in 1865….he said it would make it hurt a little less….like I could still talk to you. I think he expected me to stop once I hit puberty….but that took another, what, ten years? I know the whole point of this was to get me to let go, albeit slowly….but I can't._

_I can't let you go, ma. I don't know how else to explain this. You were - you ARE my mother, and even though I only knew you for seven years….those were the best years of my life (don't tell Svetlana!). After Kurt and I had to move out to Palmyra, I lost all my friends, I lost a lot of my freedom (they wouldn't let me leave until 2008!), and I sort of….I dunno….got stuck, emotionally. Laura says I didn't 'grow with the world', and, admittedly, I didn't. All my world history knowledge either comes from Kurt's stories, the books that Private Seth kept importing, or straight from dad._

_Not the world's best sources…(the first and last ones, at least, Kurt exaggerates and dad's got a bit of an ego…)….ah, great. I forgot where I was going with this…._

…_which is probably for the best. I just looked at the clock, and it's 3:02pm. The rink is pretty far away from here, and I gotta run to pick up Liberty on time. I promise it won't take me four years to write again this time._

_I love you, Ma._

_ - Nathan L. Cameron_


	26. Roundabout GerIta

_There's one character of this series who's never debuted...at least, not yet. Out of all of them, I like him the most, in terms of his origins. It's taking an already stretched concept and stretching it even further...but honestly, I've been afraid of how you all would react to him. This snippet may not fully explain him, but it does set up most of the explanation._

* * *

It was hard for him to believe that the off-handed conversation they'd had not hours before had his friend's life.

He couldn't even remember how they'd gotten on the subject of the blood types. One minute, they'd been sitting outside the church, talking casually, and the next, they'd been comparing blood types. Markus was a universal donor - Noah? A universal recipient. The young Italian had laughed and pointed out the coincidence. They'd talked for a few more hours, taking advantage of one of the rare days of calm in this era of losing war.

Then the air had begun to hum with the sound of engines. Markus had realized what was happening first, and dragged Noah off the bench, urging him to run; to get to shelter. He'd sworn the other had been right behind him, but when he'd reached the shelter of a street-side cellar and looked back, Noah was forty feet behind him, assisting an elderly man who'd been knocked down in the chaos that now reigned in the streets. Markus had been three steps out into the street to run back when the world around him exploded.

He later found out later that a British bomber had dropped a payload on a storefront three miles away. The shockwave had knocked Markus clean of his feet, and dominoed several buildings…including the church he and Noah had been sitting outside. The street had been flooded with blood, dust, and rubble, and it had taken Markus five hours to dig through the mess. He found the old man before he found Noah. At least the poor soul had died from the concussion blast, and not the rubble avalanche that had buried him.

His heart racing, Markus dug through shattered bricks and glass, leaving gruesome red handprints on everything his bleeding fingers touched, until his fingertips encountered skin rather than rubble. Nearly sick with relief, Markus pulled Noah's limp body from the mess, dragging him clear of the wreckage before he all but flopped to the street. Cradling his friend's unconscious body, Markus groped desperately for a pulse. He found one, but it did little to calm his fears.

Blood was pouring from Noah's head and limbs, and there was no way Markus would be able to stem the flow by himself. The German staggered to his feet, clutching his human friend, and staggered off as the air raid sirens finally died down, replaced with the sirens of ambulances and authorities. He couldn't waste time waiting for an ambulance. It would take them too long to get across the mess of the street. Noah would die before he could get help! St. Hedwig was nearby….if it hadn't been destroyed in the raid.

God, Noah had been so pale by the time he'd scrambled through the hospital doors. Everything had become a blur, up until a question from a doctor had triggered the memory of their earlier conversation. Markus had volunteered immediately, and he'd been hooked up to the appropriate needles and tubes before he could blink. The blood loss had been dizzying, and he must have passed out at some point, because his next memory started the next day.

To his utter joy and relief, Noah had been alive. Unconscious and frighteningly pale, but alive. The nurses had left Markus in the room overnight, and they came in to check on the both of them halfway through the day. The young Italian was still at risk of catching infection from his other injuries, so the nurses asked Markus to hold off on visiting until the threat had passed. Noah remained in this precautionary quarantine for almost six months.

Markus obeyed the nurses…to a degree. He never visited Noah in person again…but he paid messengers to deliver bouquets of yarrow and yellow, white and violet tulips to the young Italian every day. They held a deeper meaning for the German, but he never got a chance to explain it to Noah. He'd fully intended to return to the hospital once Noah had recovered enough to stand a visitor…but he never did.

And to this day, Markus still had no good excuse.

* * *

_Short, and with as much (attempted) historical accuracy as possible. Honestly, I have no idea what happens when someone needs/has a blood transfusion, let alone back then. My intel comes from the Internet, and I'm sorry if it's not exact._


	27. The Day the World Stopped Turning

_Written for the 10th anniversary. Because everyone has that one tragedy in their life that is worse times thousands than anything else...and sometimes, all these people need is each other. Contains vague references to WWII and vague assumptions made._

* * *

Markus stood at the edge of the new monument's north side, staring down into the dark well of the fountain center. Though the German city hadn't personally known anyone killed in the tragedy, there had been several citizens of Berlin within those towers….It always shocked him just how sharply he could feel the death of even one of his citizens. It made a little sense - with a much smaller population (relative to his father, Germany), the effects his people and the land had on him were greater. But that was no more of a comfort now than it had been ten years ago.

He traced one finger over the name set in the memorial wall before him. This was the last one. Ten Berliners out of hundreds dead, and he'd spent all day tracking them down. Lately, he'd been forcing himself to confront topics he'd been avoiding for years….he still had yet to come to terms with the big ones (WWII and such), but…this was a good place to start. Markus sighed quietly and pulled his hand back.

His mind felt a little more at peace, now….but there was one last person he needed to see.

The United States Minor Outlying islands are separated from the nation's capitol by exactly 6,699 miles. They rarely hear any nationwide news unless informed by a passing destroyer or aircraft carrier. Berlin usually heard about the mainland's natural disasters before the islands did. But on that day when the world stood still, everyone knew. Nathan had been on the islands at the time, and had begged and bribed his way onto a passing cruiser to get to the mainland nation. Then he'd started hitchhiking across the country before his father heard he was nearby and sent someone to pick him up.

Nathan was the kind of person that one couldn't help but like. He had a contagious smile, a fair sense of humor, and he very rarely held a grudge. Though his emotional wall was low, and even a half-hearted insult had the potential to make him cry, he could be smiling and cheery again within minutes. As a direct result of this, Nathan had a lot of friends, from many different nations (being multilingual comes in handy). He'd made them all in one place, to boot, when he'd volunteered for a fundraiser held in the parking lot of the towers.

He'd been running one of the concessions tables (hotdogs, maybe?), and every person who'd walked up to his section had gotten a smile, an introduction, and a personalized conversation snippet with their food. Many of those people really had looked him up later, so adept was Nathan at making friends. Even to cities, humans had a short life, so Nathan leapt at every opportunity to spend time with these people, reveling in the fact that he could finally be included in the world (so to speak) rather than being isolated to a few islands in the middle of nowhere.

On that day, ten years ago, though he had no direct nation-connection to New York City, Nathan had started to break. By the time the last of the survivors was found, the territory looked no better than those pulled from the rubble. He found one too many empty space….one too many bodies….one too many chances to save a life missed due to exhaustion and the sheer amount of debris to sift through. Even after all this time, Markus could still detect the sag in his fellow's shoulders as he stared down at the polished names, able to recognize far too many…

Nathan didn't register the hand on his shoulder at first, but after a moment, he slowly turned to look at Markus. The slightly taller blond moved his arm and draped it around Nathan's shoulders in a silent gesture of understanding. Though their corresponding situations were several decades and an ocean apart, they now both had their sorrows to drown. Markus turned away from the monument after another few moments of silence, pulling Nathan along with him.

"There is a bar a few blocks east." He spoke quietly, for any louder would have been disrespectful to those immortalized here. "Why don't you and I go find a booth….and drink a toast to those we lost before their time?" A very tiny smile - not a happy one, but more of a sad sort of 'I-get-what-you're-doing-but-I-don't-feel-better-yet' smile - crossed Nathan's face, and he slowly reached up to stretch his own arm across Markus' shoulders. Taking this for a silent yes, Markus steered them down the street as the artificial lights of the city slowly overtook the fading sunlight.

This wouldn't be drinking to drown sorrows…not tonight. Tonight would just be…one more toast.

* * *

_Short...but I don't think I can really say anything else..._


	28. Enough with the AU

_Because I can never leave something alone. Alternate (and currently the leading) opening for the AU of CotN. Posted here to get the idea written down, and to prove that I'm not dead._

* * *

It was an absolutely dreary day in the little town of Richelieu.

It had been gloomy and cloudy for weeks now, and the rain had been coming down at a steady pace since early morning. A small town of roughly 2100, the soaked streets were sadly empty that day. Stores - though technically open - were devoid of shoppers, tourists had called off their day of exploring, and the citizens were all huddled up in their homes, whittling away a gloomy day in the comfort of their homes….

Except for one little boy, huddled instead on a stone bench along the size of a tree-lined path in the park.

No older than ten, and tiny for his age, the boy sat with his legs dangling above the muddy path, soaked to the bone and huddled beneath a flimsy, worn out blue windbreaker that did very little to defend against the cold. He sat shivering on the bench, little arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to retain body heat, though by his chattering teeth, he had little luck. Expecting to be all alone in that park that day, he was a little surprised to hear the sound of footsteps. However, when the person stopped in front of him, the boy didn't look up from those elegant (if muddy) boots.

"Que faites-vous ici, mon fils?" (What are you doing out here, son?) A male voice asked. "Vous allez attraper froid ici." (You're going to catch cold out here.) The boy closed his eyes and shivered as the rain seemed to stop. He could still hear its soft roar all around, so the stranger must have been carrying an umbrella.

"C'est un peu tard pour ça, monsieur ..." (It's a little late for that, sir…) He muttered. "Mais je vous remercie pour votre sollicitude." (But thank you for your concern.) He could almost hear the man's frown - it was in the way he paused before he shifted and sat down on the bench beside the child.

"... Vous êtes perdu, mon fils?" (…are you lost, son?) The man asked in a quieter voice. The boy felt his lip quiver, and hugged himself a little tighter.

"Non, monsieur, je ne suis pas perdu ... Je suis juste seul." (No, sir, I am not lost…I am just alone.) He replied sullenly. There was a moment of silence, and then an arm was wrapped around the child, pulling him into a warm, one armed hug. Had the situation been different, the boy may have pushed the man away. But instead, he burrowed into the hug, and snuggled into the man's warm blue jacket. He thought he felt a spark of static electricity, and then the man tightened his hug.

"Petite, laissez-moi vous emmener dans un endroit sûr," (Little one, let me take you somewhere safe,) The man offered. "Vous pouvez obtenir chaud et sec, et nous pouvons parler, d'accord?" (You can get warm and dry, and we can talk, alright?) The child nodded, only concerned with - at this point - getting out of the rain, now that he'd found someone who didn't pretend he wasn't there. The man stood up from the bench and offered the child his hand. Still not looking up, the child accepted the offered hand and slid off the bench.

France made sure to shorten his stride to make it easier for the child to keep up. The little thing clung tight to his hand, following along with his head bowed. It was easy enough to keep the boy out of the rain - he was small enough to hide beneath the umbrella without getting underfoot - and the nation's local home was only a few streets away. It was a three story beauty that he retreated to whenever he needed to step back from the politics of the world (something that he hadn't had time to do for a while now).

As they paused on a corner to be sure the streets were clear of traffic, France glanced down at the child clinging to his hand. The poor thing was shivering visibly, and his little fingers felt just as cold as he looked. His blond hair was soaked through and plastered to his head and shoulders (it looked like it hadn't been trimmed in months, and hung just slightly longer than France's own), and his clothing was tattered and patched up by experience born from necessity. But what really intrigued the nation was the spark he'd felt upon contact with the boy.

That spark was something he hadn't felt in a long time. It was a spark of familiarity; a spark of realization. He'd felt that same spark when he'd first met Seychelles…Canada…England…but there were no new nations that he'd heard of, and Prussia seemed to be the only example of a personified state. If not those…..then just what was this boy….?

But there were more important things to be concerned with at the moment.

After they crossed the street, France led the child through the steady rain to the door of his home, and led him inside. He closed his umbrella and stood it up beside the door, and then left their coats and boots by the closet. The boy's windbreaker had done a passable job of keeping his clothing dry, though the thing was far too large for the boy, and full of patched up holes. France retrieved a towel from the bathroom, sat the boy at the kitchen table, and quickly towel his hair dry, When he pulled the now damp towel back, he finally got a good look at the boy…

…and he wondered, for a moment, if it could be coincidence to see yourself fin the face of a stranger.

Though clearly much younger, the boy had the same bright blue eyes as France, and had his hair not been so dirty, no doubt it would have shone the same gold. Though his nose was a tad different, and there was a small scar near his hairline down the left side of his face, France found it hard not to be stunned by the sight for a moment or two. He came back to his senses to find the boy staring at him strangely, and chuckled.

"Désolé, mon garçon. J'étais perdu dans mes pensées." (Sorry, my boy. I was lost in thought.) He ruffled the child's dry (well, somewhat) hair. "Aimeriez-vous quelque chose à manger?" (Would you like something to eat?) The little boy's eyes lit up.

"Oh, oui, s'il vous plaît, monsieur!" (Oh, yes, please, sir!) He replied. France laughed and straightened up.

"Un délicieux repas, pris par la France, à venir!" (One delicious meal, made by France, coming up!) He declared, sweeping into the adjoining kitchen, eager to show off his culinary skills.

* * *

_Translations courtesy of Google Translate. On a semi-related note, I'm hosting a contest on DeviantArt to find some cameo OCs for "Territorial" (because my brain is burned out, OC-wise, and I want to make this more interactive for the readers). My username is GreyScale9 - stop by and check out the contest, if you have time. Your OC could be featured in "Territorial"! _


	29. A Sailor's Valentine

_Very short, but I only mean to prove I'm alive. I'll be doing a series of these Valentine shorts for certain couples of "CotN"/"Territorial", so if there's any couple you'd like to see in particular (established or not) let me know!_

* * *

Alphonse had been honestly surprised by the gesture.

He'd been holed up in the main cabin for a week, battling seasickness while the rest of the crew battled the rough seas. It was probably for the better, since Alphonse had no experience or business being a sailor - the only thing he was good for was navigation. God knows he wasn't the only navigator in the world, but Captain Archer wouldn't have anyone else.

Speak of the devil, there was the captain now, heavy boots clomping on the deck beyond the door before they stopped. The heavy door creaked open as the captain peaked inside, then opened it further and closed it behind them. More footsteps carried the captain across the cabin, though Alphonse kept his eyes closed and buried in his arms as he lay languidly in the hammock he'd been allowed. There was a scrape of wood on wood as the captain dragged over a chair and sat beside the hammock, leaning over the seasick navigator.

"…feelin' any bettah Ally?" Laura Archer asked, reaching over to pry one of the Frenchman's arms away so she could see his face. Alphonse turned his head to look up at Laura with miserable blue eyes. His face was pale, and he'd been suffering the near-constant threat of rediscovering what he'd eaten hours earlier. But he managed a tiny smile for his captain.

"Oui…a little…" He lied. "My apologies, but…now you know why I stayed on land." Laura smirked dryly and carded her fingers through his loose blond hair. Alphonse closed his eyes again as the soothing motion continued, and for a while, the only sounds in the cabin were the rustling of Laura's heavy jacket and the creaking of the ship. Then, something heavy and roughly the size of a compass was dropped on him. Curious, he opened his eyes and moved to pick up the octagonal wooden frame now sitting on his chest. Alphonse slowly started to smile.

Patterned after a compass, with dark base and white coral directional points and bands, the sailor's valentine was so intricate that Alphonse caught himself wondering at the fact that Laura had ever had that much patience. Even smaller bits of obsidian spelled out a phrase that crossed two hearts and two languages, surrounding a pale green cedar leaf at the very center.

"Thought this might 'elp cheer ye up." Laura returned to carding her fingers through his hair. "Would'a made it bigger, but'ah ran outta shells…" Alphonse couldn't help but laugh at the quiet pout he could hear in Laura's voice. He reached up to pull Laura's hand from his hair and entwine their fingers, turning her hand to kiss those calloused knuckles.

"It's beautiful, mon capitane." He smiled. Laura smiled in return and leaned in closer, the wide brim of her had effectively hiding both of them.

"I meant it, too, love…" Laura's smile was borderline predatory as she hovered just above here companion, the sailor's valentine held between them. "Together…'til the seas run dry." She leaned down a little further to kiss her unofficial husband, to no protest of Alphonse. The door behind them opened as the first mate started in, looking to give his report. He took one look at captain and navigator, pivoted on one foot, and promptly walked back out.

He was sure to spread the word that the captain was not to be disturbed

* * *

_Also, I'm still running that contest on my Deviantart account. You don't have to be a DA member to join, nor do you have to draw. You can PM or Note me with a with a written entry for the contest. Your OC could feature in "Territorial"~! ^_^_


	30. Cold Encounter

_**Author's Note:** If anyone still reads this, I want to apologize for the long delay. Life reared its ugly head, and character development threw a bit of a wrench in the writing itself. I've actually decided to begin completely rewriting "CotN" - this chapter is a test of a newer writing style, and is a bit of a test for playing a Canon correctly. Let me know if I've made any major mistakes! _

* * *

It was a cold, clear February day in Stockholm, Sweden. Not unusually cold, for that time of year; the temperature high was around -1℃, and though it had snowed a fair few millimeters the previous day, the weather broke no records. It was about 8pm, and though the workday crowd had long since returned home, the city streets were still fairly populated with shoppers and people being out and about, and enjoying what remained of the slowly fading daylight. It was still early in the month, so the daylight hours were still short, but they would steadily return as the days wore on.

Not that darkness would cause a real slow down in activity. This was the 21st century, cater all.

Sweden stood on a corner of the street, shopping bags in hand, and free hand tucked into the pocket of his coat as he waited for the crosswalk light to change. As he did about this time every year, the nation was beginning to dream of a quiet cabin up in the mountains, with thick wooden walls, a warm fireplace, and a beautiful view of the snow-dusted woods. He hadn't been able to visit up there as often as he'd have liked…it had been at least a few years since he'd last been able to get away, in fact. The rousing pace of the modern world all too often forced the forfeit of free time - especially for one of his occupation.

When the light finally changed, Sweden pulled himself from his thoughts, and joined the rest of the crowd that hurried across to the curb of the next block. He still had a few more errands to run in the city before he could head home, and still a few days left of paperwork and official duties before he planned to turn in a few of his stock-piled personal days. Even a nation needed a day off, every decade or so…

Things didn't go quite as Sweden had planned, and it wasn't until two weeks after his preferred date of vacation that the nation actually had time to put his plan into action.

Finally, though, the day came when Sweden woke up, and had no pressing nation matters to attend to; no paperwork, no meetings, nothing scheduled at all. Feeling lighter than he had in a long while, the nation had woken up at the crack of dawn, packed his car for a four day getaway, and set out for his isolated mountain cabin. The trip took a good five hours, and the sun was solidly in the sky by the time he arrived. As he shut off the car and stepped out, Sweden took a deep breath, and allowed himself a quiet smile. The familiar crunch of snow beneath his boots, out here in the woods, and far from the dull roar of the city, seemed so much more relaxing, and the Swede quietly savored each and very step as he unpacked his car, and headed inside the cabin.

It was almost exactly as he had last left it, with the only changes being the accumulation of dust and cobwebs. Chairs were still turned up on their tables, and cloth sheets were still draped over the furniture, as they had been for years. Sweden moved his bags into the single bedroom, and then paid the supply closet a visit before getting down and dirty, cleaning the cabin from top to bottom. When he was finish, his back was aching, and his eyes were watering from all the sneezes coaxed out by disturbed dust and allergens, but the cabin looked brand new. Sweden stood back as he observed his work, and let out another proud little smile. It was a smile most others never got to see, and the simple fact of it existing would have probably unnerved them enough to make the smile itself disturbing. But out here, Sweden had no-one to impress or frighten, so his smile could be just that - a smile.

By nightfall, the nation had a nice little fire roaring away in the stone fireplace, and a fair sized stockpile of freshly chopped firewood set to the side of the hearth, where it could dry out overnight, and be ready to replenish the flames when they began to die down. Sweden settled on the couch with a warm cup of hot chocolate, and took a deep, contented breath. Even if it was for a short four days, it felt good to get away from the hustle of work.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon, and its gentle rays were painting the snowy woods in warming shades of oranges and yellows. Birds were calling in the distance, and the forest was alive with the soft sounds of winter life. It was a beautiful, beautiful sight, and were the circumstances any different, the boy would have stopped and stood in awe of the natural light show. However, he was in the process of running for his life, and had no time to spare to be awed by a pretty sunrise, today.

Every step of his wild run was a risk; ice could send his feet flying out from underneath him, a hidden root could snag his boots, his wounds could give out, or a hidden ditch could twist his ankle. Pure luck kept the boy on his feet and moving forward step after step, and adrenaline had long since pushed his common sense into the background, resulting in the boy having no clear idea where he was. The trees had long since begun to blur together, and tunnel vision had already begun to set in. He didn't care where he was, he just wanted to get away from where he had been. As the forest ahead of him began to thicken with foliage, the boy found the sense to raise his arms, and at least ward off the branches from his face.

Unfortunately, this prevented him from seeing the edge of the hill he was approaching, and suddenly, his foot came down on open air.

The boy pitched forward down the hill, kicking up snow in a small avalanche, and striking what felt like every rock in existence on his way down. Finally, the boy slammed into a hard, unmoving surface, and his glasses were knocked clean off his face. Rattled, and suddenly unable to find the strength to get up, the boy remained sprawled in the snow against the side of the cabin, gasping for air, and fighting just to stay conscious. Breathing hurt, but he needed the oxygen; lying down was painful, but his body just couldn't move. The boy made a weak whining sound, clenching a fist full of snow in a feeble attempt to lift his arm, and the whine turned to one of frustration when he was unsuccessful.

Snow crunched beneath heavy steps, and a pair of black boots came into the boy's limited line of sight. Frightened gray eyes turned up to look at the owner of the boots, but they were too tall, and the boy - sans his glasses - was unable to see their face. He managed a gasping whimper, trying to move again, and the figure shifted to kneel down. A large gloved hand touched his head, and brushed his damp hair back from his face. A weak smile crossed the boy's face. This couldn't possibly be the one who'd been chasing him. He was safe….

Sweden frowned as the strange boy's eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness. He turned to look up the hill the boy had fallen down - the snow was disturbed from a full body tumble - and the jagged, broken branches still dangling from their stumps. The boy had to have been running pretty hard, to take such a tumble down the hill. Slamming into the cabin probably hadn't helped his condition, either. It had been the impact that had alerted the Swede to the disturbance, after all.

Turning back to the mystery boy, Sweden looked through the snow around him, and soon found a pair of light frame glasses. He folded these, and tucked them into his jacket before he reached out and gathered up the boy in his arms, and stood up. Though not fully conscious, the boy cried out in pain, in between his desperate gasps for oxygen. Sweden lightened his grip, slightly, shifting his hands away from wounds that he could now see had left their crimson marks in the snow. He turned and quickly carried the boy inside the cabin.

They were too far from civilization to get help immediately, and this child needed treatment now. Thankfully, centuries of life experience had provided the nation with such necessary knowledge. He'd treat the boy first, and then get him to explain the situation.

* * *

_Do you like the new style? Did I play Sweden more-or-less in-character? Does Lucas' new introduction work? Or is it too angsty?_


End file.
